by M. C. Muir
‘So what of this secret cargo you are carrying? It seems odd to me that it had been stored in a frigate. Surely it was a job for a sloop.’
The question was so forthright Oliver did not respond.
‘Tell me,’ the eldest of the three frigate captains asked in a confidential manner, ‘did you take a Spanish treasure ship loaded with gold? Or is it prisoners of diplomatic significance you are transporting?’
‘I am not at liberty to say, sir. Those are my strict orders.’
‘But, sir, from one captain to another. A hint at least?’
The interruption was well timed. ‘Begging your pardon, Captain.’
‘What is it, Mr Tully?’
‘Some more ordnance arriving, sir.’
Quintrell was grateful. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you will have to excuse me. We are due to sail tomorrow and I have final preparations to make.’
It was not the cordial conclusion Quintrell would have wished for, but he was grateful to avoid providing any opportunity for further questioning.
The shrill of the bosun’s pipes accompanied the visiting officers’ departure and Oliver was not sorry to see their heads disappearing over the side. He had enjoyed the converse with two of his guests though the captain of the Foxglove, who had been designated commodore of the escort vessels, was a pompous bore – the type of man he had little time for either on land or sea.
‘A message arrived for you, sir.’ said Mr Hazzlewood, handing it to him as the three boats were rowed back to their respective frigates. ‘It was delivered by the Port Admiral’s launch only a few minutes ago.
The linen package bore the distinctive anchor seal of the Admiralty. A change of orders, Oliver thought, as he headed directly to his cabin to open it.
Breaking the seal he peeled back the wrapping expecting to find new instructions. But the packet held nothing but a private letter sealed in its own envelope. He examined the scrawled handwriting but did not recognise it.
Opening the correspondence, he read:
My dear Captain Quintrell,
I trust that this letter finds you in good health.
Mrs Quintrell, your dear wife, is in receipt of your letter saying that you have recently been delivered safe home to England but stating that you must forthwith attend at the Admiralty in London.
We thank the Lord for your safe homecoming; however it is regretful that you are unable to return to Bembridge, no matter how briefly.
As your good friend and your wife’s physician, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your wife is gravely ill.
If it is within your power, I strongly recommend your urgent attendance at home.
I am however aware of the limitations which His Majesty’s service places on you.
I remain,
Your friend and obedient servant,
Jonathon Wilberforce
‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Oliver gritted his teeth and screwed the letter in his hand. If only he had known his wife was ill. If only there had been a message waiting for him when he arrived. It was his own conscious decision which had stopped him from making a visit home and now it was too late. That annoyed him and thoughts of Susanna, of Madeira and of what he coveted there, inflamed his sense of guilt. He could have taken the launch from Portsmouth on the first day and been to Bembridge and back in a matter of six hours. Now such a visit was not possible. Elusive was due to sail at first light and the three frigate captains had their orders and were ready to sail with him. There was no way he could respond to the doctor’s request.
But what had happened? When he left England his wife was well. Now there was a chance she might die before he reached her. The thought she was possibly already dead burned briefly in his mind. It was an eventuality he had sometimes considered as all men who go to sea must do, but for Oliver they were dangerous thoughts which he battled against. Now his mind was burning like a slow-fuse lit in a powder-room; a fuse he had dared to kindle before but always managed to dash out. He admonished himself. He had loved Victoria sincerely and deeply as she had loved him, but somewhere on the great gulf of ocean which had flowed between their different lives, their love had sunk to the fathomless depths leaving barely a few remnants of their past affection floating on the surface.
Struggling to pen a letter, tears rolled down his cheeks. He was unaware such intense emotion was rooted within him.
My dearest wife,
It pains me immensely to read of your illness and I am truly distraught that I cannot visit you while I am in Portsmouth. I have only just received revised orders which instruct me to deliver my ship to The Thames.
The Admiralty’s strict orders prevented my men from disembarking in Portsmouth and because of this I refrained from allowing myself the opportunity to return home for a brief visit. Now I regret that decision.
Dearest Victoria, you have my word that as soon as my ship is delivered to Greenwich, I will return to you. Hopefully, that will be one week from this day.
I trust Mr Wilberforce will afford you the best of care and I pray for your speedy recovery.
Your affectionate husband,
OQ
Chapter 23
The English Channel
Will Ethridge leaned on the larboard rail and gazed dolefully across the water to the Hampshire coast as it faded further and further away. The ship’s acting carpenter had come so close to his home. So close to seeing his mother and grandfather again and so close to the shipwrights he had known before that fateful voyage in his hand-built boat. The mouth of the Beaulieu River and the village at Buckler’s Hard were just a few score miles from Portsmouth. It was so near and yet so far.
For more than eight months he had been waiting for the opportunity to go home and when Elusive had sailed up The Solent and anchored at Spithead he, like many others, had been filled with anticipation. How well he could imagine the expression on his mother’s face, the surprise in his grandfather’s eyes, and picture the tears of joy streaming down their cheeks when they saw him. Just the thought of them brought tears to his own eyes.
But as Elusive sailed south and the coastline disappeared in the haze, bitter disappointment tore at his belly. He had never wanted to go to sea and now being unable to get away from it angered him. He knew he was not alone. Amongst the crew, the Portsmouth men were of the same mind as were the men of Plymouth, Torbay and Falmouth. From the harbour they could probably find a berth on a coastal trader to carry them home to their families. Other men had hopes of signing on a higher rated ship, and Portsmouth was the place for that.
But now the port and the Royal Naval Dockyard were behind them and London loomed ahead. It was a city Will had heard of but knew nothing about. More than once during the last three days he had toyed with the idea of running. He was fit and strong and could swim to shore. It was not far away. But he had learned that distances at sea were deceptive and adrift in his hand-built craft he had felt the force of The Solent’s current first-hand. Besides, if he jumped ship now, the marines on the battlements would spot him. If he was not shot, he would be caught when he came ashore at the jetty. The charge for desertion according to the Articles of War was death.
He was distraught, frustrated and confused.
For a time he had harboured fond thoughts of returning to Buckler’s Hard, of selling his boat and giving the money to his grandfather. But as the months and miles had slid by, Will had realised that his wooden row-boat was no longer his property. It had been commandeered by the navy just as quickly as his name had been entered in the muster book. Now they both belonged to the service.
In the mess the men had other grievances. In return for the voyage they had undertaken, with all its horrors and hardships, the crew would receive only their regular pay. Not a penny more or less. For their part in returning the valuable cargo of ambergris there would be no prize money – no spoils of naval warfare. Every ounce, crumb and grain of the floating gold would pass to the government’s coffers, with not so much as a thankyou for thei
r efforts.
The grumblings had grown louder when no wives were allowed on board ship. After months spent swaying in a cold hammock, packed tight as pilchards in a fishwives basket, to be deprived of female company when they were within sniffing distance of the wharf was enough to drive a man crazy. No one was allowed onboard. No one was allowed off. That was the order. Except the captain and his boat crew, of course! It was unfair.
Will had tried to get a place on the captain’s boat, but all seats were occupied by the regular boat crew.
Maybe he would run when the ship reached London. But he didn’t know the town, the dockyards or the Thames and the rumours he had heard about the ugly happenings on the wharves and jetties, were enough to deter him.
Returning to England was not what he had expected. Then he thought about the men he had come to know like family; men he had shared his every waking hour with; their joys, their pain, their idiosyncrasies, their arguments, their fights, their everyday lives. He had laughed with them, cried with them and learned more from them in the few months than he had learned in his lifetime on Buckler’s Hard. He had faced real dangers and experienced unimaginable horrors on the island, and stood shoulder to shoulder beside them. It made him feel proud.
He thought of his friend Percy Sparrow though he wanted to forget the recurring nightmares which had troubled him since the barrel had been opened. Chips had been kind to him, nurtured him in the early days, been like a father to him – and he had grieved his passing more then that of his own father who he had hardly known.
He had grown up in the last eight months far quicker than he would have at home. Now he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a shipwright on the hard - laying keelsons, carting timber, and hammering trunnels for hours and hours with never a break. Sailing on one of His Majesty’s ships was far more exciting than building them.
‘Signal from the commodore, Captain,’ Mr Smith said.
‘Well?’
The midshipman read from his slate. ‘Our number followed by, Close up and proceed to Downs.’
Oliver rubbed his clawed hand across his brow.
‘Set the main course,’ he called, scanning the English Channel. The sky was leaden. The chalk cliffs of Dover were duller than he remembered; almost as grubby as the spread of the ship’s canvas.
‘I have a bad feeling about this, Mr Parry. Close up and keep pace with the three frigates. This wind will take us around the South Foreland. When we enter the roadstead, be prepared to make anchor.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Simon replied, remembering a similar order he had given the time he had attempted his fateful passage. It had been a very similar day. A fair wind had been blowing and had carried him in allowing him to anchor with several score vessels – all praying for a blow to carry them safely from the Downs – all anxious to avoid that illusive and often invisible barrier to the east – the Goodwin Sands.
It was not a place the lieutenant would voluntarily choose to revisit, and like the majority of the crew, Simon Parry had been disappointed at leaving Spithead.
Hadn’t Oliver explained that his ship had a damaged hull? Wasn’t it essential to remove the cargo as soon as possible? Surely by sending the frigate back into the Channel, there was a chance of losing it – to storm or shipwreck or an unprovoked attach by the French, the Dutch or some privateer. He wondered about the logic of the Admiralty’s order.
He had experienced the Sands. He had learned, to his cost of their insidious nature. He knew that when the Goodwin Sands swallowed a ship, they consumed it completely, regurgitating nothing.
‘Could I make a suggestion, sir?’ Simon said, over dinner.
‘Go ahead, Simon.’
‘With an escort and with these prevailing winds, would it not be preferable to sail to the east of the Sands?’
‘Close to the French coast, is that what you are suggesting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why so?’
‘If the weather does not improve, a confrontation with the shifting sand and tides could prove costly.’
‘I can understand your concern, and I am not happy being dragged along the Channel on a naval leash. But I have my orders, Simon, and for the present must abide by the commodore’s decision. We must bide our time, but I too have an uneasy feeling.’
The barometer has fallen dramatically, Captain,’ Mr Nightingale said.
‘I can sense it.’
‘Signal from the flagship, sir. Strange sail to starboard!’
‘Mr Parry, speak to that man aloft. Either he is blind or fast asleep. If the frigates can see a ship, then the lookout should see it also. Goodness, I can almost see the French coast from here. Acknowledge the flagship and find out what colours it is flying.’
But before the flags could be run up there was a shout from the masthead. ‘Deck there! Three ships. All Frenchies. A ship of the line and two corvettes.’
‘What bearing?’ Oliver called. ‘Let’s hope they are heading for the Mediterranean!’
He reserved his own thoughts on the alternative. Had the ships appeared by accident or intent? Was it possible word had carried that a frigate carrying a fortune in ambergris was sailing up the Channel. Surely that could not be the case. Then he reminded himself of the ship which had shadowed them in the Atlantic. And of the Esmeralda de Cadiz which had foundered at the entrance to the horseshoe-shaped island. How many people knew about this so-called secret cargo? Had the wharf-side mumblings already been passed around? Were the walls of the Admiralty offices made of papier mâché? Could no one be trusted no matter what sphere they worked in?
‘Bearing nor-east!’ The words rained down from aloft. ‘Same as us and closing.’
‘Damn! Damn! Damn! Is this a coincidence or is she preparing to provoke another war.’
‘Signal from the leading frigate confirming the French presence,’ Mr Nightingale added.
‘How far to the Downs?’
‘A little over two hours if this south-westerly holds.’
‘All hands on deck, Mr Parry. Beat to quarters.’
Within minutes the deck was swarming with men. With news of the ships off the starboard beam any lingering thoughts of wives, sweethearts or of going ashore were quickly forgotten. Though they were not at war, the fear of attack and being blown to pieces by the broadside of a 98-gun ship of the line was enough to remove any idle thoughts and occupy minds afresh.
The youngest midshipman with his book and board came running along the quarterdeck, his nose quite white after scratching it with chalky fingers.
‘Our number, sir. Proceed with all haste.’
‘Acknowledge, if you please, Mr Smith. Mr Parry, let’s show these Frenchies what a tired frigate can do.’
As the three escort vessels bore to starboard with Elusive in their lee, she braced her yards around and closed on the English coast. If she could make it safely to the Downs, it was unlikely the French would follow. The roadstead would be teeming with ships, albeit mostly merchant vessels but possibly some English second- or third-rates.
On deck, tensions were high but the barometer was low and thick cloud was forming. Once it engulfed the ship it prevented them seeing the approaching squall. Spawned on the coast of France, the gale arrived suddenly, the rain battering the Channel like grapeshot from a hundred guns as it thundered towards them. When the first mighty gust roared over her beam, Elusive heeled dramatically, the main yard almost dipping its arm in the boiling sea. On deck neither officers nor crew were dressed to greet it.
‘Hold her steady!’ Mr Parry shouted to the quartermaster. ‘More hands to the helm!’
The sleet-cold rain was delivered in a tangible shroud and Elusive found herself floundering beneath the wet blanket. ‘Hold your bearing! Get a double reef on the topsails and take up the courses. We’ll not make it to the Downs if we cannot see where we are heading.’
Oliver pricked his ears. It was difficult to hear above the wind, hard to distinguish which sheave was shrilling or which sail cracking
, but the sound of a cannon being fired, even in the distance, carried on the wind. It was a single shot. He waited, poised for a response. Had the French ship opened fire on the frigates? Were the escort ships trying to establish their position? Was it a poorly timed salute, or were the frigates drawing the attention of the French corvettes?
It sounded like a forward mounted carronade. But why such a powerful shot? And was it fired in defence or attack? What would the ramifications be? The answers to those questions would have to wait until they were safely delivered to the Downs. For the present Oliver’s only concern was to maintain course and get out of the fog and trust that the three frigates did the same.
By seven o’clock that evening, Elusive was anchored off Deal along with more than fifty other assorted vessels. The south-westerly had carried them in. The squall, as if suddenly struck by the blade of Madame Guillotine, had died instantly the frigate entered the roadstead. Within minutes the cable rumbled through the hawse hole and the anchor dug into the shingle bottom.
Though the journey from Spithead had been neither long nor particularly arduous, the men looked tired. Mental rather than physical anguish was beginning to etch deep lines on the faces of both officers and men. Captain Quintrell was not immune to frustration and, when a lugger sailed in and anchored within half a cable’s length, he bellowed from the quarterdeck: ‘Make sure they keep their boats clear. I want no one coming aboard.’
Mr Hazzlewood shouted from the fo’c’sle. ‘Boat approaching. From the direction of Deal.’
‘Find out what he wants,’ Oliver said, gritting his teeth. ‘And get rid of him as quickly as possible.’
The boat approached in the fast diminishing daylight and bumped alongside. There was an exchange of shouts and cries then questions about water and women, but with no business to conduct, it hastened away.