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

by M. C. Muir

  But in the euphoria of receiving that long-awaited letter requiring him to attend the Admiralty, any mention of the public gatherings had completely slipped his mind. Preparations for travel to London had further distracted him and on arriving at his sister’s house in the early hours of the morning, dusty, weary and hungry after a tedious overnight coach journey from Portsmouth, the opportunity for a bath, a satisfying meal and a brief period of pleasant relaxation had been the only things of concern to him at that time.

  Damnation. He would never tolerate such a lapse of mental alertness at sea. He could not afford to. Men’s lives depended on his acute observations and the decisions he made as a consequence of them. He cursed the miasma which had infiltrated his brain and dulled his thinking, and recognized it as a recurrent malady he manifested whenever he spent long periods ashore. Hopefully, it was not a repeat of the malaise which, two years ago, had resulted in a spell in the Greenwich Hospital. Hopefully, once at sea, the first fresh breeze would divest him of it.

  Quickening his pace, Oliver Quintrell left the busy street and headed towards St James’s Park. It was not the shortest route but, by going that way, he considered he would meet with less obstruction. With a little over a mile to travel, he estimated it would take him fifteen minutes providing he extended his stride. As if privy to his thoughts, bells from several church spires rang out announcing the hour which coincided with the much anticipated arrival of King George in Hyde Park.

  Though most of the general public seemed not to be constrained by clocks and their demanding chimes, his life, since entering the service, had been controlled by them. For seamen of any rank, the ship’s bell was the pulse they lived by. The number of chimes determined the time to rise, to eat, the time for duties and the time to retire. Failing to abide by the ringing of the ship’s bell was construed as disobedience and sufficient reason for a man to be seized up to a grating to receive a dozen lashes.

  Striding out briskly, Captain Quintrell was surprised at the number of people in the park. Unlike the usual smattering of nannies with their charges, uniformed soldiers and fashionable young ladies strolling arm in arm, today’s mob were a motley crew representing almost every station in life. Many seemed quite misplaced on the lush green parkland in this particular area of London. Though they ranged from youths to old men, farmhands to labourers, mechanics to clerks, and businessmen to beggars, for the present, status appeared to be of little account. With a united resolve, some carried pikes or pitchforks, poles or crooks, others swords or spades – anything that could be displayed as a defensive weapon to be used against the threatened French invasion force. It was obvious to the captain that from the direction the crowds were heading, the gathering in Hyde Park was their intended destination.

  While a hazy sun was attempting to break through the clouds, beneath his feet, the ground was spongy from recent rain and a veil of mist hung over the lake. Already the autumn days were growing short and winter was looming on the horizon. It was a good time of the year to be sailing south.

  It had been early spring when Oliver had returned from sea, over half a year earlier. At the time, the Treaty of Amiens had still been intact but shortly after, Henry Addington had determined the country’s finances were sufficiently recovered to support another conflict and England had declared war on France. The peace, which had lasted only twelve months, had ended. By mid-June, every able-bodied seaman, foremast Jack and one-legged sailor was back at sea. Even the ageing Admirals, who had grown fat and idle during the peace, had been re-commissioned. By mid-summer, every ship of the line and sloop-of-war was at sea. Even the discarded victualler's barges, which had been stuck in the Gosford mud for over a year, had been refloated, re-caulked and refurbished, and called back into service. Sailors had been quick to sign on any ship afloat, emerging from their hovels and haunts, eager to bring an end to their enforced period of poverty. They knew full-well the dangers that lay ahead but they also knew that with sea war comes the prospect of prize money, which for them was an added incentive.

  Since the resumption of war with France, ships of the line had sailed from every English port heading for the Channel or Mediterranean Sea. And where any berths had remained vacant, unfortunate landsmen found wandering the wharves, had been pressed into service. After being hurried aboard and secured in the hold until the vessel was out of sight of land, the rules contained in the Articles of War would have been read to them. Then the words compulsorily enlisted would have been entered against their names in the muster book. For many of the pressed men, it would be more than a year before they set foot on English soil, but for many unfortunate souls, they would never ever see England or their wives or sweethearts again.

  Details of recent naval commissions had been gazetted, so Oliver was aware Admiral Cornwallis, Rear Admiral of the United Kingdom was blockading Brest, while the Commander-in-Chief of the North Sea, Admiral Keith was commanding a fleet between the Downs and Selsey Bill. It was Keith’s job to prevent Napoleon’s ships ever reaching the beaches of southern England, while in the Mediterranean, Admiral Lord Nelson had raised his flag on Victory. His fleet, patrolling off Toulon, was ready to encounter any new ships slipped from the French dockyards to be added to Napoleon’s rapidly enlarging fleet. The man who would be Emperor had stated quite emphatically – I want only a favourable wind to plant the Imperial Eagle on the Tower of London. The British blockades were intent on preventing that.

  Why was it, Oliver asked himself, in this frenzy of patriotic unanimity against a threatened French invasion, he alone had been left on the beach, when it appeared that every other post captain on the list had received a commission? This unanswered question vexed him and he fully intended to express his dissatisfaction to the First Lord if the opportunity presented itself.

  His thoughts were momentarily distracted by a gaggle of geese that emerged from the reeds beside the lake. Waddling directly across his path and honking noisily, the mob of two-dozen or more showed no signs of halting or changing course. Likewise, Oliver had no intention of stopping and strode on. In a desperate effort to escape the invader’s legs, wings flapped as the geese paddled along the grass in an effort to take to the air. To the captain, the sound was reminiscent of a badly set, salt-hardened headsail. It served to remind him of his purpose.

  His pocket watch showed ten minutes past the hour. Double damnation. But to run would be undignified. That was something he reprimanded his junior officers for, even at the height of battle.

  As he passed beneath a row of young plane trees, the sun broke through the remnants of dying foliage. Despite the changing colours of autumn being painted across the park, he was in no mood to stop and consider the scene. Even the crunch of footsteps on freshly fallen leaves, did not induce him to slow or look around. A glancing knock on the elbow, however, alerted him to the offender – a boy of perhaps little more than a dozen years.

  ‘Sorry, Mister,’ the lad called, his legs slowing to a trot till his pace was equal to that of the captain’s.

  ‘Watch where you are heading!’ Quintrell complained.

  ‘Are you a sailor?’ the boy asked, dropping back half-a-yard, then speeding up to accommodate the captain’s longer strides.

  Oliver ignored the question, treating it with the contempt it deserved. In full dress uniform, trimmed with braid and laced buttons, and complemented with a pair of gold epaulettes, it was blatantly obvious he was at least a post captain with a minimum of three years service in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

  Oblivious, the boy continued, ‘I’m looking for a ship, Mister. Can you tell me where to find one?’

  With the tall chimneys and weather vane of Admiralty House now in view, Oliver had neither the time nor the inclination to answer a question to which any blind beggar in London would know the answer. ‘Be off with you!’ he scolded.

  Undeterred, the lad continued trotting alongside, eager for information. Measuring little over four-foot six-inches from head to toe, he was gaunt in the face a
nd spindly as a broom handle. The collar of his woollen jacket was frayed, the elbows patched, and from the length of the sleeves, it was obvious, it had been handed down from an older brother. His only apparent possession was a blanket, rolled into a bundle and secured with a piece of cord which was tucked tightly under his arm.

  ‘Are you off to join a ship, Mister?’ he repeated, ‘Because, if you are, I beg you to take me with you.’

  Oliver flicked his wrist indicating for the boy to go away. These inconsequential questions were beginning to inflame his usual reasonable temperament.

  ‘Mister—?’

  Stopping dead in his tracks and turning to face his assailant, the captain took a deep breath, ‘You are an infernal nuisance, boy. Go home this instant.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I came from up north. I came to London to find a ship.’

  Quintrell resumed his stride. ‘Then I suggest you either return to the north or go directly to the West India Docks.’

  ‘I don’t know where them docks is,’ the boy said, puffing a little and taking four steps to every three of the captain’s. ‘A fellow pointed me to come this way. Said I should ask at the Admiralty. He said they would know. Is that where you are going, Mister?’

  Oliver sighed. ‘Indeed I am,’ he said, ‘and I will travel there with more speed, and arrive in a far better humour if you were not disturbing my passage.’

  ‘Sorry, Mister,’ the boy said, swinging his bundle at a dog who was snapping at his heels. ‘But I can’t go back up north, not least till I’ve been on a ship.’

  Oliver walked on. The Horse Guards’ parade ground was ahead of them with the Admiralty building beyond, its courtyard and entrance facing Whitehall. But as the pair left the green, a troop of mounted guards rode across their path, leaving them no option but to wait until the procession had passed.

  Gazing in awe at the brightly uniformed soldiers, their breast-plates glinting, the boy continued chattering non-stop though his voice was drowned by the clatter of hooves, and clink of spurs and swords. Waiting impatiently, Oliver breathed deeply as he unfastened the three lowest buttons of his waistcoat. The enforced rest had been unkind to his waistline.

  ‘I saw them soldiers two days ago in Hyde Park,’ the boy announced. ‘I even saw the King’s coach as it drove by.’ He received no answer. ‘Honest, I did. I never seen so many people in all my life.’

  Oliver studied the pimple-faced, wide-eyed urchin. Though only the height of a powder monkey, he boasted a sparse fuzz of fine pale whiskers on his chin, the same colour as the unruly mop of yellow curls on his head. He was probably older than he had initially estimated.

  ‘I can assure you, London is not always so congested,’ Oliver said, relieved to see the last of the column of foot soldiers that brought up the rear.

  ‘For your information,’ he said, gesturing with his hand, ‘the Thames is that way. There you will find all manner of boats working the waterway – lighters, barges and wherries. If you are in luck, one of the masters may be looking for a boy.’

  Having reached the Admiralty, a pair of marines standing on guard duty at the Whitehall entrance acknowledged the captain but challenged the lad preventing him from going into the courtyard.

  ‘That’s not what I came to London for,’ he yelled, as the captain strode across the yard. ‘I want a ship.’

  Oliver shook his head. Such blatant insolence was tantamount to insubordination and would merit a dozen lashes for any seaman under his command. Then he reflected on the boy’s words and realized his trip to London was for the self-same purpose. I want a ship too, he mused.

  On entering the building, Captain Quintrell was directed into a large reception vestibule. It was sparsely, but elegantly furnished and the imported silk carpet added a lubberly gentility to it. The walls adorned with paintings, depicting ships at sea or engaged in battle, added atmosphere to an otherwise staid environment. An item of particular interest that attracted his attention was a papier mâché model of a port. Displayed on a large oval rosewood table, the contoured hills, coast, an extensive bay and winding river were all carefully painted in appropriate shades of blue and green, while black ink indicated the position of several fortifications. Without reading the name on the plaque, Oliver recognized Valdivia, a port situated on the west coast of South America. He had entered that bay and sailed beneath those batteries on more than one occasion.

  With footsteps approaching from the corridor, Oliver fastened his waistcoat, adjusted his sword-belt then, glancing down, noted with a frown that his woollen stockings were double-reefed around his ankles.

  ‘Captain Quintrell,’ the clerk called.

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘Kindly follow me.’ Not waiting for an answer, the clerk sailed out of the room and headed for the staircase leading to the first floor. From the landing, a corridor ran the length of the building. It lacked windows and, with only one lamp burning, was dismal. When the pair reached the door at the far end, the clerk stopped, knocked, entered, and instructed the captain to wait.

  After pushing a recalcitrant length of hair behind his ear, Oliver attended to his stockings, successfully easing them up and smoothing them around his calves before the door re-opened. Stepping aside, the clerk ushered him into the Admiralty’s Board Room.

  Never having been admitted to the inner sanctum before, the captain discovered it to be refreshingly bright with light streaming in from the tall windows along one side. Seated at a large walnut table which occupied half of the far end of the room, were several high ranking officers bearing stars of various Orders on their chests – Lords Commissioners, ageing admirals, plus two other elderly gentlemen, presumably representatives of the government.

  The First Lord of the Admiralty, John Jervis, Earl of St Vincent was not a man to mince words. ‘You are late, Captain! Kindly be seated.’

  Oliver took the chair obviously designated for him facing the dignitaries.

  ‘Time is precious and, as there are several matters to attend to, plus the gentlemen gathered here today have little time to squander, I will not waste my breath on preliminaries.’ St Vincent paused, directing his gaze at Oliver.

  ‘Captain Quintrell, you come here in the hope you will receive a commission. When you leave, you will not be disappointed. As to what this entails, I will not keep you anguishing any longer, though the information I am at liberty to divulge is limited, for obvious reasons. Your mission carries a degree of secrecy, as did your previous, but we are unanimously agreed that we can depend on you to discharge your duties judiciously and with expediency.’ He paused. ‘The delay of some months has been unavoidable, as it rested on certain eventualities over which the Admiralty had no control. However, I trust you have made the best of your enforced rest and it has provided time for you to support your wife through her recuperation.’

  Surprised by reference to his wife’s health, Oliver was unconvinced of any sentimental reasons for his beaching. ‘Thank you, my Lord. My wife has regained much of her strength and vigour of late.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. Let us proceed.’ Momentarily taking his eyes from the captain, he addressed the dignitaries seated at the table.

  ‘Gentlemen, we are all acutely aware that the war which is now upon us will make the events of the past ten years feel like a mere dress-rehearsal. As we all know, Napoleon is intent on invading Europe and taking England as his prize. For the present, the Spanish Crown has an alliance with France but, so far, has been disinclined to commit to conflict. However, as Napoleon has Spain dangling on a financial leash, it will be only a matter of time before he reels it in. Alone, Spain is not the mighty maritime force it once was, but as a combined enemy, the French and Spanish fleets would constitute a formidable naval adversary which Britain will be unable to equal.’

  There were a few raised eyebrows, but no one disputed the statement.

  Turning his attention to the captain, ‘The resumption of war has presented the Admiralty, the Navy Board and the British
Government with many problems – some expected, others unexpected. Finding men and officers to man our ships was not difficult. Initially the problem was selecting which officers to turn away. As to the situation we presently find ourselves in, with every able-bodied man volunteering to serve his country, I must question how long this wave of enthusiasm will last.’ The First Lord paused, and glanced through the window. ‘However, it is donations of pennies and pounds rather than displays of pitchforks and palings that we require to combat this threat. This could be a long war, and even though Addington has doubled the efficiency of the income tax, it will surely affect us all.’

  He turned his attention to the two gentlemen at the end of the table. ‘Conflict can prove disastrous to Britain’s economy, and while some argue that maintaining the slave trade is the only way to support an on-going war, it is my belief, even the Parliament may be swayed towards abolition before very long. However, that is a matter of conjecture and a problem for the Government and Treasury to address, not the Sea Lords or the Navy Board.

  ‘Finding sufficient ships to defend England against this threatened invasion is our immediate concern. Over the past year, while Napoleon’s yards have been busy building ships, Britain has been dispatching her old vessels to the bone-yard or stripping them naked and converting them to prison hulks. Portsmouth, Chatham, and Deptford can boast some of the finest fighting ships Britain ever built – proud men-of-war dismembered, disassembled, disrespected and now used as repositories for French spies or convicted criminals. Such an ignominious end is a travesty. After bearing England’s finest into battle, the Navy has turned its back on them, and like the murderers, rapists, thieves and cut-throats they house, they are sentenced to rot, chained to a bed of river silt.’