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

by M. C. Muir

  ‘And where did you get your master’s ticket from? You couldn’t even steer a jolly-boat across The Solent.’

  ‘I learnt geography in school. Didn’t you go to school, Bungs?’

  ‘He never heard of school let alone walked through the door of one. Anyway, what you going do when you get paid-off? Build yourself another boat and try to drown yourself again?’

  The men around the mess table enjoyed the joke.

  ‘I’m going back to Buckler’s Hard to finish my time.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Who knows, I might sign on a king’s ship. I might even be able to get a mate’s warrant with a word from the captain.’

  ‘You never know, if old Boney is still up to his tricks, that peace the Frenchies brokered might have been broken and when we sail back into Portsmouth Harbour we could find ourselves transferred to a man-of-war. You might not even get chance to go home if we’re shipped straight out again.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Froyle. ‘Now the navy’s got its grubby claws in you, you might not see home for five years.’

  ‘I’ll be home in a month,’ Will said. ‘You mark my words. I’m going to surprise my grandfather and tell him what happened.’

  ‘He’ll never believe you, I reckon.’

  Chapter 22

  Spithead, April 1803

  What a sight greeted the frigate as it headed up The Solent. It was not the array of naval ships littering the freeways – those ships of the line, still in commission, rocking aimlessly on their anchor cables; or to the north, the battlements and fortifications of England’s premier naval port. It was the low green hills of the Isle of Wight; the broad stretches of yellow sand, wet and glistening on the ebb; the friendly clutter of merchant ships gathered on the Mother Bank, and beyond those, the stately structure of the Haslar Hospital – so very English. Not far from it was the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour, and beyond that the Royal Naval Dockyard. And home. How appealing the prospect of a safe harbour was after a voyage of many months.

  Elusive’s men cheered as the weary frigate reached Spithead, hove to and sounded a salute. Anchored nearby in the roadstead were the fighting ships, a pair of 74s, a 98-gun ship of the line and two frigates. But with their decks almost bare and with only a handful of crew and a few marines on deck, it was obvious that England was still at peace.

  For Captain Quintrell and his crew, returning home on this occasion was unlike returning victorious after battle. The thrill of triumph, the exhilaration of success was lacking. It was dulled by the secrecy of the mission. Oliver had become increasingly aware that there would be no recognisable acknowledgement for either him or his men and that their voyage may not even merit a few lines in the Naval Chronicle. There would be those amongst his crew who would be sorely disappointed.

  Despite that he smiled and cast his eyes around. Little did the casual observer know that aboard his weather-worn frigate was a treasure trove which would help fund another war with Napoleon or provide a substantial contribution to pay the debt incurred by the previous one. On board Elusive was sufficient wealth to build dozens of war ships and guarantee England a superior naval force capable of sending the French fleet to the bottom of the sea.

  Captain Quintrell was glad to be home. He was tired. The voyage from the Southern Ocean had been tedious – boring in fact, like the monotonous food served up daily, and insufficient of it. But he had insisted that if the men had to survive on three-quarter rations then he and his officers would do likewise. That order had not been popular but he had enforced it.

  The previous night he had slept well, the first sleep of more than a two hour’s constant duration for almost a month. But if he was weary then his crew were equally exhausted, if not more so. The voyage home had taken longer than planned – drinking water had been in short supply and rationed, and though there were ports he could have put into, he had not dared venture onto the African coast, or the Islands of Verde, or the Canaries. He had toyed with the idea of stopping briefly in Madeira. Battled with himself over the decision. Fresh meat and fruit and water would have been most welcome. Such provisions would have refreshed and invigorated his men and made the final days more pleasant. But the close encounter with the two pirate vessels off the African coast had put paid to that idea. Pirates and privateers had perfected the game of playing maritime cat and mouse, hiding at a safe distance waiting to pounce on fat juicy merchant ships which were brave enough, or foolish enough, to travel alone. Oliver was grateful his frigate had not fallen victim to the pirates’ clutches. One whiff of his cargo and he would have been a prime target. All in all, he was certain he had made the right decisions.

  After her month in the icy seas, after weeks battling the Southern Ocean and days suffering the hot African winds, after spending what seemed like an eternity steaming in the tropics with the searing heat bleeding black pitch from her veins, Elusive was home at last. But she was a tired ship. Her cordage had stretched till it could stretch no more. Her sails had split, been patched and split again until the sail-maker’s palm was punctured and raw. Her mizzen mast was loose and urgently needed re-stepping.

  The extremes had taken their toll. From heat which could parch a man’s skin as dry as an autumn leaf, to cold, unimaginable cold, which could blacken a man’s fingers and sear them from his hand. From gales and storms to deadly calms which stretched the nerve and sinew of every man, strained every shroud, stay, sheet, spar and inch of canvas till it could take no more.

  Spithead at last! Oliver breathed a long hard sigh. Now the tension could be released. It was over. He had coaxed both men and ship home safely. Now they could rest easy.

  As the anchor splashed into the grey water, he thought about his wife. Had she been watching from the window for his return? Had she seen the frigate from their house? Was she waiting for news of his return? With many questions running through his head, he knew he must write immediately and notify her of his safe return to England. He wondered if she would join him in Portsmouth as it would be two or three days before he would be leaving the ship. She had never come to greet him in the past. Perhaps this time she would. Perhaps not.

  After reaching Spithead, there was much to attend to. First, the magazine must be emptied before they could enter the harbour. Then he must report to the Port Admiral and ascertain where his cargo was to be unloaded. That was a job he intended to supervise personally. Being of such an unusual nature, he wondered how it could possibly be kept secret. Not long, he thought. The wagging tongues of paid-off seamen would quickly spread word round the town – that was if the strong musky smell of the ambergris didn’t announce its own presence before that.

  He was quietly pleased with his method of packaging the whale product – crated, padded with tussock grass, and the barrels, casks and other containers covered in sailcloth. Certainly not a distinguishable cargo to the casual eye. But to the nose … that was a different matter. He hoped the residual fumes of burning blubber which had penetrated the decks when they entered the Channel, was sufficient to mislead all but the most astute connoisseurs.

  ‘Have my boat ready, Mr Hazzlewood and when we arrive in Portsmouth wait for me at the jetty steps. Mr Parry, while I am ashore, allow no one aboard. And no one is to leave the ship. Is that understood?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Welcome home, Captain Quintrell. I am sorry we kept you waiting.’ The Port Admiral turned to the marine stationed by the door. ‘You may leave us. Please, sit.’

  Flicking up the tails from his best dress uniform, Oliver settled himself on one of the silk embossed chairs.

  ‘Do I detect a slight hint of a smile on your face, Captain? I trust you are the bearer of good news.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  The admiral leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply. ‘Interesting.’

  Quintrell looked at him quizzically.

  ‘From what I have been told, which is very little I might add, it is amazing that you located this elusive treasure
; amazing that it actually existed; amazing that it had not been removed, pilfered, relocated. Amazing that you withstood the voyage – and returned. Amazing that it is currently sitting safely in Spithead.’

  ‘Are you aware of the nature of my cargo, Admiral?’

  ‘No, Captain, I am not privy to that information and I shall not ask.’

  ‘Then may I ask if there was some question about its distant location?’

  The admiral leaned forward. ‘Many messages and tales filter through the walls of the Admiralty both in London, and here in Portsmouth – some are true, while some are extensions of the truth based only on fanciful ideas and speculations. However in certain circumstances, those in authority cannot chance to ignore what may be the truth. In a case such as this, the Admiralty had unsubstantiated information of a cache of treasure but because of the reputed value of this item, it could not ignore the information thereby allowing the cargo to fall into enemy hands.’

  ‘Then the Admiralty was not sure the commodity existed or if the location was correct?’

  ‘I understand that to be the case.’

  ‘Then, it would appear my ship and her men could have been sailing on a wild goose chase.’ Though this situation had been intimated at when he had received his orders and it was an idea he had toyed with, to hear it confirmed made him feel angry. Resentful. Disappointed. The treasure had been but a rumour. His recovery mission a whim. The likelihood of success – a pipe dream. Had he been selected for this voyage because he was considered dispensable – perhaps also Elusive?

  ‘Captain Quintrell, you were chosen because of your record, your character and ability, and you were furnished with some specially selected officers, and a working crew who were fit for the task.’

  He had hardly considered that before.

  ‘Now, Captain, I have your orders.’

  The words came as a shock. Surely this was the end of his mission. Surely he was not being shipped out again. There was much work to be done. A cargo to unload. The men deserved a break. Oliver frowned at the sealed envelope pushed across the polished table towards him. He regarded it with disdain.

  ‘I am instructed not to accept your cargo,’ the Port Admiral said. ‘I am told it is too valuable to unload here and transport to London by road. I can assure you, there are more thieves and robbers on the lanes and highways of England than there are on the high seas. Your orders, Captain Quintrell are to sail to the Thames. You will find the details here.’

  ‘But sir, I must protest. Elusive has few remaining stores. We are virtually out of drinking water. We have no fresh food and the men are weary and anxious to return to their homes. Besides, the French have spies who are always vigilant in the Channel. What a travesty it would be to lose our cargo within sight of the Dover’s cliffs when we have carried it half way around the world.’ It went against the grain to plead his case but he had to try.

  ‘I understand your feelings, Captain, but I too am only obeying orders. Your cargo must go to London. With fair winds it is a matter of three or four days sailing at the most. You and your ship have come this far, I am sure you are capable of commanding her for another couple of hundred sea miles.’

  There was little Oliver could say.

  The Port Admiral cleared his throat. ‘If it is of any consolation, arrangements have been made to safeguard your voyage. You will not travel alone. Three naval frigates will accompany you. They are preparing to leave on Thursday which gives you three days to take on water and fresh supplies. I will personally organise the victualling to commence this afternoon.’

  The captain nodded.

  ‘I realise that your home is but a short distance from here and no doubt you are anxious to return as are the local sailors. However, it is recommended that you allow no females or visitors of any description on board your vessel. We want no word of your cargo being passed to shore. I hope your boat crew can be trusted to maintain silent tongues.’

  ‘They are reliable men.’

  ‘Good. I am pleased to hear it.’

  ‘Now, sir. On behalf of the Commissioners the Lords of the Admiralty, I congratulate you on the success of your voyage and wish you a safe onward passage. Unfortunately the details cannot be broadcast in the Gazette but I am to assure you that the success of this mission will not go unnoticed.’

  There was nothing else Oliver could say. He must return to the ship with all haste before the barges came alongside to offload the powder – that might yet be needed in their magazine.

  He was not relishing the response he would receive from his officers and crew when he conveyed the news that they would be sailing for the Thames. A few would be pleased – those from London or Deal – but most sailors, particularly those off the Constantine, would be sorely disappointed. They had been absent from home for more than a year and it was possible when they arrived in London they might be transferred to another ship and expected to sail again. But such was life in the service. Most of them knew that when they signed on.

  For the Portsmouth men it would be a bitter parting – seeing the harbour wharves and buildings of their home town and being but a few hundred yards from their families, but not being allowed to disembark.

  If the men were not permitted to go ashore or receive visitors, then he would follow suit. His conscience would not allow him to take shore-leave while his men were deprived of it. He would write to his wife that afternoon telling her of his safe return and despatch the letter on one of the lighters or victualling barges with instructions it be forwarded with all haste to the Isle of Wight. He also intended to write to Susanna to inform her of his safe return to England. Any ship bound for Madeira would convey it to her.

  Loading stores, water and replenishing the supply of powder and shot was done in a lubberly fashion. Raised voices were required to keep the crew to their tasks. Gone was the enthusiasm and industry they had shown loading the floating gold on the cinder beach of the volcanic island.

  Oliver’s memory of the living and breathing lagoon was like the imaginings of a dream which drifted in and out of his consciousness. Now it seemed so distant in time and space. So unlikely. Impossible even. Yet he and his ship had been there and had returned with over five tons of ambergris. He tried to calculate what that might be worth. He remembered the rumour – a guinea an ounce. But his brain was tired. Sixteen ounces in a pound, a thousand pounds in a ton. Five thousand pounds … five thousand multiplied by sixteen …

  He questioned the Lords of the Admiralty’s decision to sail to London. He had even protested their orders with the Port Admiral, but to no avail. He must follow his orders.

  ‘We sail on Thursday,’ he announced to his officers on return. The frigates, Windsor, Foxglove and Pembroke will accompany us and I will receive the three captains on board on Wednesday at noon. I am assured, though it goes without saying, these officers are of the highest repute. The crew, including yourselves, will say nothing of what is in our hold particularly to the visiting boat crews. And I want every deck scrubbed with brimstone and vinegar before noon on Wednesday. Hopefully it will disguise some of our smell.

  ‘I don’t believe the ambergris smells now,’ Mr Mundy said.

  ‘The fact we can’t smell it is probably that we have got used to it. Do you smell the tar on the rigging or pitch in the caulking? Do you smell wet sails or salt in the sea air?

  ‘Hardly sir.’

  ‘But when you come near land you can smell the forests and marshes and fires before they come over the horizon. I think we do not smell what we live with, only what we have not experienced for a long time. Vinegar and brimstone, Mr Mundy. Had we any blubber left in the barrels we would have been boiling that.’

  Despite the chill of a morning on the open waters of Spithead and the men’s initial disappointment at not being allowed ashore, the overall mood of the crew was much improved. With only a handful of the starboard watch on harbour duty, most men had slept longer and deeper than usual being lulled by the somewhat sheltered waters
of a safe roadstead. The meals of the two previous days had also helped. Fresh meat and vegetables in ample servings had warmed both their bellies and their hearts. The fact they were to be escorted by three naval frigates, freshly painted fine looking ships with white sails, not patched dirty grey ones like those which Elusive had been sporting, provided the crew with an air of pride. And for some, the thought that when they reached their destination there may be an opportunity to transfer to one of those frigates led to some lively discussions in the mess.

  On Wednesday at noon, Elusive’s crew lined the deck as the three captains were piped aboard. The smell which greeted them caused at least one of the visitors to curl his nose.

  ‘I like a white deck,’ Oliver explained, when quizzed over dinner. ‘Of course sulphur fumes are excellent for removing lice but I am sure you are aware of that.’

  He was fully aware of the flippancy of his conversation, particularly as the captains bore two epaulettes on their shoulders, but it was the only way of avoiding awkward questions. In one regard he welcomed their visit. There was much he wanted news of; the state of the country; the fragility of the peace. He had been absent from England since August of the previous year without mail or newspapers and only limited information from other ships. It reminded him of the time he had spent in a hospital bed when the brain fever had robbed him of several weeks; when the world had continued rotating but had left him behind.

  Now at his dining table he was confronted by three men whose main concern was the list of recent promotions – commanders and captains whose names he had never heard of before, and the names of familiar fighting ships which had been de-commissioned as a result of the peace.

  The intriguing events in the Americas and Indies were spoken of at length as was Boney’s ambitious expansion through Europe. Napoleon’s terrestrial invasions had taken his land forces much further than anyone ever envisaged. Then there was discussion of the British temptation to take vulnerable French ships. In a time of peace it made for interesting conversation.