by M. C. Muir
‘Yes, Mister – Captain.’
‘Captain alone, will suffice,’ Oliver replied.
By this time, the captain’s steward was leaving the building and heading towards them. A young midshipman was following a few paces behind, obviously unwilling to part with the wooden case under his arm. Casson, meanwhile, was making every effort to hurry him along.
Climbing into the carriage, Oliver glanced down at the forlorn expression on the boy’s face. ‘Listen to me, Master Wainwright and follow my instructions carefully. From here, head to the Thames and follow it downstream until you come to the bridge. Cross the bridge and continue in the same direction until you reach the dockyard at Deptford. Enquire there and you will find a ship with the name Isle of Lewis preparing to sail. Ask for the officer-of-the-watch and tell him that you have spoken with Captain Quintrell. Remember – Deptford Dockyard, Isle of Lewis, and Captain Quintrell.’
‘Your sword, Captain,’ the midshipman said, as he leaned into the carriage and placed the polished case on the empty seat.
Oliver thanked him and turned to the window, but the boy had gone.
Before climbing to the box-seat, Casson could not resist one question. ‘Do you have a ship, Captain?’
‘Not you too!’ Oliver retorted, confusing his steward as to the meaning behind the remark.
‘At Gibraltar,’ he explained, allowing himself a slight grin. ‘We sail from Spithead, one week from today.’
‘Praise be!’ Casson hissed, closing the carriage door, his smile stretching from ear to ear.
‘Indeed, and much to do in that time.’
‘If you’ll pardon me for saying, the mistress will miss your company.’
Oliver wondered. Since the arrival of her sisters and their children, his wife’s time had been fully occupied, to the extent that he considered his absence would hardly be noticed.
‘My wife looks forward to the possibility of the three ps,’ he said.
‘Three ps, sir?’
‘Aye, prestige, promotion and prize money – in no particular order.’
‘And you, Capt’n, would you agree with that adage?’
Oliver Quintrell thought for a moment. ‘I think I would rather opt for three ss – seas, sails and—’ He mused, pondering over the final s – sailors, southerlies, sea-shores? Ships, of course,’ he said emphatically. ‘And let us pray for a sound vessel, a safe passage and favourable winds. What say you, Casson?’
‘I say amen to that, sir.’
On releasing the brake and grazing the tip of his whip on the horse’s flank, the driver wore his cab around in Whitehall and headed for
Grosvenor Square. The sound of creaking timber and the swaying motion of the carriage were reassuring movements to the naval officer as he gazed from the window. In the distance, near the end of a narrow alley, he glimpsed a boy running, head down, grey bundle tucked under his arm, haring along as though the Hobs of Hell were chomping at his heels. To Oliver Quintrell, it was obvious where the lad was heading – first to the Thames, then to the dock at the Deptford naval yard and finally to a ship by the name: Isle of Lewis. Leaning back against the threadbare upholstery, Oliver recollected a time when his own enthusiasm for the sea was just as keen. A time when his mind was oblivious to danger and his thoughts and responsibilities were for no one but himself. That was a time long ago, when a good haul of herring on his grandfather’s boat was reason enough for a celebration and a pebble skimming across a lake was the only projectile of significance.
The innocence of youth is to be envied, he thought.
Chapter 3
Isle of Lewis
It was a bleak morning when Captain Quintrell crossed the pebbled beach near the Sally Port and stepped aboard the boat waiting to convey him to His Majesty’s Frigate, Isle of Lewis. With favourable winds, it had sailed from the dockyard near London and entered The Solent three days earlier. It was now anchored amongst an assortment of other vessels in Spithead.
With his dunnage shipped the previous day, the captain was confident his steward would have attended to everything satisfactorily and, that by the time he embarked, all his personal items and special stores would have been stowed aboard the frigate.
Following his return from London, the intervening days had flown by. His precious hours had been consumed by various obligatory engagements and social gatherings at home – two dinner parties and attendance at a ball in Ryde on the presentation of one of his nieces. Surprisingly, he had enjoyed participating in those events and wondered if that was due to the fact that his remaining days at home were limited? Or was it that within a week he would be in Gibraltar where he would take up his commission and learn the details of his forthcoming mission? If those orders entailed a voyage across the Atlantic then Madeira would be his first port of call and the possibility of seeing Susanna had certainly crossed his mind.
Being conveyed as a passenger aboard Captain Slater’s frigate meant he would have no ship-board responsibilities. That, in itself, would be a novel experience he had only previously sampled when injured and incapable of performing his duties. However, if he eventually rose to the rank of Admiral, his responsibilities would again change but, as the war with France was considered likely to run out of steam before he was stepped up, it was of little concern.
Because of the lack of wind on the roadstead, the boat’s mast had not been raised, therefore Captain Quintrell sat in the sternsheets which offered the best view – not of the eight uniformed sailors pulling on the oars, but of the convoy of ships anchored in Spithead. All thoughts of what he was leaving behind were quickly dispelled by the rhythmic creak of the oars in the rowlocks. His only concern now was for what lay ahead, yet his expressionless face revealed nothing of the eager anticipation burning within him.
At eight bells and the beginning of the afternoon watch, Isle of Lewis weighed anchor and drifted slowly from the roadstead. With a light drizzle falling and a haze of mist hanging over the water, the glims in the stern lanterns had already been lit. Being in the lee of the Isle of Wight meant there was little wind, but The Solent’s out-flowing double-tide, offered some assistance to the frigate in making way. Hopefully, once around the lee of the island and into the English Channel, they would be afforded an adequate breeze.
With an ample crew of two-hundred-and-fifty men, the naval vessel headed a small convoy of four supply ships. With thirty-two guns aboard Isle of Lewis, the frigate’s role was to protect the heavily laden cargo vessels against attack from pirates, privateers or French ships of the line.
With the anchor cable hauled aboard and flaked out on the deck to allow some water to seep from it, additional sail was made in anticipation of a wind. Having being invited to the quarterdeck, but being a passenger, Oliver maintained a respectable distance from Captain Slater and his senior officers as the frigate and convoy of cargo vessels proceeded to sea.
The gun salute to the fortifications reverberated along the ship’s timbers delivering a slight judder through the soles of Oliver’s shoes. It was the first such feeling he had experienced for some time and it reminded him how good it was to be back at sea. The responding salvo from the saluting platform was dulled by the mist and distance, and raised not the slightest response from the sailors casting the gaskets from the canvas on the topgallant yards.
With only a light breeze, Spithead and
St Helens Road were unruffled, unlike the crew. Isle of Lewis had made an easy passage from the Thames but since arrival in the road had stood off Portsmouth Harbour for three days during which time no one had been permitted to go ashore, and no visitors – in particular women – had been allowed aboard. While wandering the deck, Oliver caught snippets of conversations and heard whispered mumblings, though most voices clammed shut when he ambled by, but it was not hard for a seasoned officer to sense the sailors’ disappointment at being deprived of female company. However, apart from that minor observation, Isle of Lewis appeared to be a well-maintained ship and he could only wis
h it was his command. But, for the present, he was satisfied and wished for nothing more. He was heading south to take up his own commission.
While the frigate drifted slowly down the east coast of the Isle of Wight, Oliver observed the sights familiar to him – a sheen of grey silt at the mouth of the Bembridge River where he took his regular morning dip. The winding cart-track leading up to his house on the hill overlooking The Solent, and the line of tall poplars behind it, which in spring and summer offered protection from the westerlies. Despite their age, the trees grew taller every year, but now, almost stripped of their autumn leaves, the branches appeared like bony fingers etched against the November sky. Soon they would offer no shelter from the westerly gales of winter.
As always, Oliver wondered if his wife was observing from one of the house windows. He had informed her of the day and tide of his departure, but he doubted she would be inclined to watch.
After heading south, the ships commenced their slow sweep into the English Channel where the remnant thrust of the Atlantic swell reminded everyone on board of the direction they were heading.
The involuntary smile, hovering on Captain Quintrell’s lips, was one of satisfaction – the type of unconscious smile, usually accompanied by a deep sigh, when relaxing in an armchair, while warming a glass of French brandy in his cupped hands. The fine liquor was one thing the French deserved to be complimented on and Oliver hoped that this war, and Napoleon’s demand for men, would not prevent the growers from harvesting their annual crops. His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a young midshipman who dutifully touched his hat.
‘Begging your pardon, Capt’n. Captain Slater asked if you would care to join him for a stroll.’
‘Thank you,’ Oliver said, striding across the quarterdeck, his gait easily accommodating the gentle heel of the ship.
Captain Slater’s mood, however, was glum. ‘At this rate, unless we find a decent wind, it will take three days for us to arrive off Ushant.’
‘Are all the ships proceeding to Gibraltar?’ Oliver asked.
‘Not so. Two are for Cornwallis off Brest. Once I have delivered them to the fleet, we will part company and proceed south. When those vessels have discharged their cargo, they will return to Portsmouth unescorted.’
‘That would make them vulnerable to attack from pirates or privateers, would it not?’
‘Quite possibly,’ Captain Slater replied, sounding unconcerned. ‘But at least their holds will be empty. The other two, however, will continue with me to Gibraltar. It is imperative these supplies arrive safely for, without them, England would be hard-pressed to maintain a fleet in the Mediterranean.’
‘May I ask what cargo the supply vessels are carrying?’
‘The largest has a live cargo – pigs, chickens and sheep, calves and a few horses – a veritable menagerie stored below deck. The others are laden with the unusual stores, plus spars, sails, blocks and new cordage. Far better for ships to repair at Gibraltar than attempt to limp back to Falmouth reeling like lame ducks on the Bay of Biscay. But I agree with you, pirates and privateers are a problem. They have the nostrils of hungry foxes. I am convinced they can smell a damaged ship before it rises on the horizon.’
‘Let us pray the blockades hold,’ Oliver said, ‘and not a single French ship slips through the net.’
‘Let us hope so, indeed.’
‘And what of Gibraltar, sir? It is many years since I visited that port.’
‘Busy and demanding as always, and more so since the resumption of war. The Port Admiral has an unenviable task coping with the contingencies of battle with the constant demands for refitting and repair work, along with the day-to-day necessities related to docking, watering, stevedoring and victualling. Fortunately the garrison, which is responsible for defending the area, is very well manned. With Spain only a stone’s throw away across its narrow border, Britain’s hold on Gibraltar is extremely tenuous. Imagine how disastrous it would be if that strategic position were lost.’
‘And what of the French in the Mediterranean? Will Admiral Lord Nelson’s fleet be able to maintain his blockade of Toulon?’
‘A good question. The French wrights build faster ships than those slipped from our naval yards, and during the peace, while we were converting our men-of-war to coal hulks, the French yards were busy building a bigger and better fleet.’
‘They may have fine fast ships,’ Oliver added, ‘but they will never produce the disciplined seamen the Royal Navy boasts’.
‘Despite that, I fear afore long, we will face a formidable armada. As Spain already has an alliance with Napoleon, the next step will be for them to join forces and declare war on England.’
‘And if the fleets of France and Spain unite, will we have the naval power to stop them?’
Captain Slater shrugged off the question. ‘Tell me, Captain Quintrell, are you at liberty to divulge your orders? Will you be staying in the Mediterranean or heading across the Atlantic?’
‘My interim orders are to attend the Port Admiral in Gibraltar. That is the extent of my knowledge. I will speak with him as soon as I go ashore. No one is more anxious than I to know what is required of me.’
‘Then I wish you well, Captain. And, tomorrow evening you will join me and my officers for a meal, so we can talk at length. But, for now, you must excuse me. I must go below. There are matters I must attend to.’
Oliver nodded and strode back across the quarterdeck. The much anticipated wind was teasing the hem of his boat cloak, ruffling the face of the square sails but failing to fill them. From the starboard rail, he regarded the Needles of the Isle of Wight. Hopefully, if they were blessed with a blow, by morning England’s southern coastline would have disappeared from view.
As always, Oliver’s feelings were mixed. Guilt was spawned by his elation at leaving England and home, though he had no reason to feel guilty. His wife, Victoria, was well. Her health had returned to a greater degree, though it ebbed and flowed with the inconsistencies of the Portsmouth harbour tides. Recently, with the arrival of her devoted sisters and their children, she had become the centre of attraction, which in turn had improved her spirits further.
For Oliver, however, the mere thought of entertaining a house filled with guests was as disenchanting as being offered a post as commander of a prison hulk. He valued his privacy – a legacy of being a ship’s captain – yet, at home, there were constant demands for his attention. His participation in board games, card games and charades was deemed obligatory, as were the tedious hours spent listening to poetry readings and musical recitals, often poorly performed, which he had to endure with stoicism. Worst of all, his guests pressed him for anecdotes about his career at sea (politely side-stepping any reference to his disfigured hand). Though, thankfully, he soon discovered that their interest in his seafaring pursuits was superficial and easily satisfied. Society gossip and the latest London and Paris fashions were the major subjects of interest but, as he had little time to indulge in such matters, his contributions were limited. It was just as well that news pertaining to his missions was of little interest to the ladies, so it was not necessary for him to appear rude or evasive by remaining silent.
On this latest occasion, his time ashore had been far longer than he would have wished, however, he was satisfied that during that time he had done his lubberly duty to the best of his ability. Furthermore, with her siblings milling around her, it appeared Victoria, no longer had need for his attention, which allowed him to depart with a clear conscience.
‘Begging your pardon, Captain,’ the lieutenant said, lifting his hat. ‘It is you!’
Oliver turned his eyes from the fading coast.
‘Good to see you, sir,’ the officer said. I’d heard we were carrying another captain aboard but I didn’t know it was you, till just now. Do you remember me, sir?’
‘Mr Hazzlewood, but of course I do. How could I forget? And I see from your new uniform that congratulations are in order.’
�
�Thank you, sir. Passed my exam for lieutenant soon after I left Elusive. It only took me sixteen years serving as a middie,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was the oldest candidate presenting for examination but I was able to answer every question the Board put to me – and they asked me plenty.’
‘Well done, Mr H, your promotion is well deserved.’
‘Commissioned third lieutenant, I am, but I would never have made it were it not for you – and Mr Smith,’ he added.
‘Ah, the Honourable Algernon Biggleswade Smythe,’ said Quintrell with a wry smile.
‘Aye, that’s his handle!’ then he corrected himself, looking around to see if anyone was listening. ‘I mean, that’s his full title. But, I call him Algy when we’re on us own. Good mates we are, though, as you no doubt remember, we’re as different as chalk and cheese, him being from landed gentry and only a lad, and me being what I am, and nearly old enough to be his father.’
Oliver nodded, his thoughts flashing back to his previous command.
‘He was granted special permission to attend the exam at the same time as me, though he didn’t meet with all the navy’s requirements. I think some relative must have put in a good word for him. Even so, they couldn’t grant him the promotion so he’s still serving as a middie. Problem is, he’s not old enough to make lieutenant and not done enough shipboard service. He’s only served aboard Elusive with you, Captain, though his papers show him serving since he was eight years old.’
‘And what ship is Mr Smith serving on now?’
‘He’s right here, sailing with us on Isle of Lewis. Captain Slater sent him over to one of the supply ships with a message, but he’ll be back afore long.’
‘Then I will look forward to meeting him later.’
‘I reckon if this war runs on a few years, Mr Smith’ll be stepped up. I wager he’ll see his first command before he reaches his nineteenth year.’