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

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Are you bound to a ship?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘No, sir, just coopering in the yard here for the present. Apart from the constant demand for new barrels, there’s a non-stop stream rolling on and off ships every day. Many of them are damaged and in need of repair. The ships come in for water or victuals, off-load the empties, refill the holds and they’re off before you know it. Certainly no shortage of work here.’

  ‘Then you have no desire to sail at the present?’

  ‘You looking for crew, Capt’n?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Then I’ll be happy to sail from here, and there’s a few men I know’ll be eager to sign. Am I right in thinking you’ll not be heading back where we went afore?’

  ‘I would think not, but do not let me keep you from your work.’

  ‘No, sir. Thankee, sir,’ the cooper said, reaching for his hammer and a length of iron.

  A positive start, Oliver thought, as the two officers emerged into the bright sunlight.

  Glancing back across the water, Algiceras Bay glittered under the Mediterranean sun. Sharing the anchorage were ships, cutters, schooners, sloops and brigs bearing various flags. The bay offered a sheltered haven from the turbulent currents of the Strait of Gibraltar through which they all had to pass. Amongst the British vessels in the roadstead was the frigate he had disembarked from only an hour earlier.

  ‘I have no desire to return to Isle of Lewis,’ Oliver said. ‘I have had more than my fill of it, in more ways than one. Your suggestion of a clean lodging house appeals to me. What would you recommend?

  ‘I have a room at the Rosia Bay Inn. The landlord once served as cook aboard a second rate. His anecdotes are quite entertaining, though I fear they stretch the truth a little. However, the food is good.’

  ‘Then his tales will be a pleasant change from the wearisome stories I have been listening to this past week. But first I must collect my orders.’

  The building occupied by the Royal Navy’s representative on The Rock was a white colonial mansion whose furniture reflected a strong Spanish influence. The décor was certainly that of a fine house rather than a naval establishment but, as it was a location to which foreign diplomats were invited, the cost was deemed justifiable. With the Spanish border only a few hundred yards walking distance away, it was far more expedient to purchase such items made by Iberian craftsmen than to fill the holds of supply ships with heavy furniture made from English oak. Cargo space was too valuable, especially in times of war. Despite the warmth of the sun outside, the corridors and receptions rooms within the stone building were cool.

  The meeting with the current senior naval officer in Gibraltar was a necessary formality that was quickly attended to, the waiting time being longer than the appointment itself.

  ‘Your sealed orders, Captain,’ the Admiral said, handing Oliver an envelope impressed with the familiar waxed seal depicting an anchor and twisted cable. It was that same image, carved in stone, that appeared above the entrance to the Admiralty building in Whitehall. Only two weeks earlier he had admired it there, but the time lapse seemed much longer.

  ‘These only arrived yesterday,’ the Port Admiral said. ‘Bad weather on the Bay of Biscay dismasted the ship conveying the dispatches from London. You are indeed fortunate they arrived at all, for I heard that the captain had considered returning to Portsmouth. If that had happened, you could have been sitting here twiddling your thumbs for weeks.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Shuffling through a pile of papers, the Admiral took off his wig and scratched his bald head before continuing. ‘Your command, Captain Quintrell is His Majesty’s Frigate, Perpetual. Some months ago, she fell foul of a pair of French corvettes off Minorca.’ He shook his head. ‘The dispute over that tiny scrap of useless land amazes me. Despite being soundly outnumbered, the frigate managed to limp in here dragging its sails like a swan with a broken wing. An unfortunate and embarrassing sight witnessed, of course, by our Spanish neighbours across the bay.’ He sighed wearily. ‘I am advised, however, that the wrights have done a remarkable job and the repairs have been fully completed.’

  ‘And her crew?’ Oliver enquired.

  ‘Apart from the carpenter and his mates and a handful of marines who remained aboard, all the hands were paid off and most have already signed on other ships. With that in mind, I have taken the liberty of advertising for a crew. I have also given instructions for Perpetual to be victualled and watered as soon possible.’

  Oliver thanked the Admiral. ‘And the magazine?’

  ‘Powder and shot has been ordered and will be delivered aboard once you are off the dock. I understand there is some urgency in your departure.’

  The captain nodded. He would know more once the contents of his orders were revealed to him. The Admiral was obviously a busy man who had little time for pleasantries so, with no further questions, Oliver rejoined Mr Parry outside. The whole matter had been dealt with in less than five minutes. The next priority was to visit the naval yard and the frigate awaiting him.

  Two days later, a crowd of sailors gathered along the quayside where Perpetual was moored. Progress of the disorganized line was slow, as the queue shuffled towards a table where a young midshipman was seated. Dressed in a finely tailored uniform and with face and hands scrubbed to a shine, the junior officer was recording the names in his book, taking note of any special skills and allotting the hands to various stations accordingly. Speaking in the best King’s English, Midshipman Smith instructed each man where to sign or make his mark.

  Standing a short distance away, Mr Hazzlewood, the recently promoted lieutenant, observed the proceedings. By comparison, his uniform was relatively old, of a poorer cut and ill-fitting, suggesting it had been handed down or purchased second-hand.

  Pacing the wharf, Mr Parry cast a critical eye over the waiting men, discharging those who displayed the slightest sign of sickness, also any who looked too frail or unfit to withstand the rigours of a long voyage. Amongst the throng, a few faces were familiar, and occasionally, the first lieutenant would stop and acknowledge a seaman by name, without appearing over-friendly. Of the older men, he dismissed a few, advising them to attend on the following morning, stating that they would only get a berth if younger and fitter men were not available to fill them. Perpetual could not accommodate them all.

  While some scratched an inky cross in the book others signed their full names forming each letter slowly in neat copperplate scroll. One of the adept writers was a naturally muscled black Jack. His bare shoulders were smooth as polished jet. They glistened, as if doused in whale oil. The indelible marks of punishment, however, criss-crossed his back – the pink keloid scars accentuated by the dampness of his skin.

  ‘Mr Hazzlewood, bring that man to me, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Come along, you,’ Mr Hazzlewood called, beckoning the sailor back from the table. ‘The lieutenant wants a word.’

  Mr Parry lifted his gaze to the man who, in bare feet, stood over six feet tall. ‘Your name, Mister?’

  ‘Ekundayo. But the men call me Eku.’

  ‘Do you write more than your name, Eku?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And why do you choose to sail with us?’

  ‘To leave this place,’ he replied.

  ‘Have you sailed on a navy ship before?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Many times afore.’

  ‘But you have no slops or dunnage.’

  ‘They were stolen last night when I was sleeping. But I have these,’ he said, opening his palms. ‘That’s all I need.’

  Having stepped up onto the weather deck, Captain Quintrell was observing the proceedings from the ship’s rail. He considered that the average size and general state of health of the sailors in the line was typical of any ship’s muster, but when he looked at the black seaman, his recent conversation on the Isle of Lewis sprang to mind. Captain Slater had argued that even in poor health, through ill-treatment or malnut
rition, Africans were fitter and stronger than white men of similar age and weight. It was an argument he had to agree with. A healthy black tar was worth two or three of any feeble-fisted pale-faced English sailor. It was an interesting fact and from experience he had found it to be true.

  ‘Mr H, take this man to the purser,’ Mr Parry said. ‘See he is supplied with shoes and clothes and show him where the mess is.’

  The sailor knuckled his brow.

  ‘I trust you realize this is not mere generosity on the part of the Navy Board. The cost of the slops will be deducted from your wages, so I suggest you don’t allow anyone to steal them this time. However, if you work hard and obey the rules, you will be well treated, I can assure you.’

  The Negro nodded and followed the newly appointed lieutenant onto the frigate’s deck.

  With the only tall man removed from the crowd, the remaining sea of heads was of a similar height but displayed varying thatches ranging from blonde to brown, black to ginger, even peppery white. Some were bald but most had a mop of unkempt hair which was likely running with lice and in need of shearing. Some pates were hidden under knitted or felted hats but a plaited queue, dangling from the back of man’s neck, was an indelible mark of his profession. Most stood around five and a half feet in stature, a few were taller, a few smaller, but hidden within the mob was a figure almost a foot shorter than the average. Clasping a rolled blanket under one arm, he shuffled towards the table with the others.

  When he reached the head of the line, Midshipman Smith looked up. ‘I am afraid we are not signing boys,’ he advised eloquently.

  ‘I ain’t no boy,’ was the bold reply. ‘I’m fourteen. Besides, him over there said I could sail on his ship.’

  ‘Him?’ Mr Smith repeated emphatically. ‘Firstly, young man, I would advise you that it is rude to point. And secondly, if it is Captain Quintrell to whom you are referring, you most certainly do not refer to the captain as him.’

  ‘But that’s him what knows me.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Mr Smith said, his right eyebrow raised. ‘And where would he know you from?’

  ‘From that Admiralty place in London.’

  The Honourable Biggleswade Smythe could not resist a smile. ‘Am I to believe that you first became acquainted with Captain Quintrell at the Admiralty? Is that correct?’

  ‘Sort of,’ the boy said. ‘But if you don’t believe me, ask him. He’ll tell you.’

  Ignoring the last remark, the midshipman continued. ‘Fourteen years of age, you say. Have you sailed before?’

  ‘Yes, can’t you tell from the slops I’m wearing?’ I sailed from London on the Isle of Lewis. Same ship the captain come to Gibraltar on.’

  ‘And, no doubt, you both dined together whilst on board.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I’ll have less of your cheek, young man, or you’ll not be sailing with us.’

  ‘It’s God’s truth. The captain over there told me where to find his ship, and I found it and here I am.’

  Midshipman Smith scratched his head in disbelief. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Thomas Wainwright.’

  ‘Can you write, Master Wainwright?’

  ‘Of course I can write. And read too. I ain’t dumb.’

  ‘Hey – stow it!’ Mr Hazzlewood growled, having just returned from the ship. At the same time, Mr Parry strode up to the table.

  ‘What is happening here, Mr Smith? Why has the line come to a stop?’

  ‘No problem, Mr Parry,’ the midshipman said. ‘Put your mark here, lad.’

  ‘But I told you I could sign.’

  ‘Then sign, for goodness sake, and be done with it. Next!’

  Chapter 6

  Mess Mates

  Three days later, His Majesty’s frigate, Perpetual weighed anchor from the roadstead in Gibraltar Bay and headed towards the Atlantic Ocean. From the coast of North Africa to that of southern Spain, the azure sea shimmered under the cool November sun. Though the Strait of Gibraltar concealed currents, which swept around the rocky promontory making it a perilous and deceptive stretch of water to navigate, it didn’t deter the porpoises for whom it provided a permanent playground.

  Oliver was not sorry to be leaving The Rock which was overrun by bands of vicious Barbary Apes. Their screechings and penchant for thieving was not only a constant reminder of their claim to residency, but of the proximity of the pirates of the nearby Barbary coast. He did not envy the small population of this far-flung British territory, residing on a tiny pocket of land almost completely encircled by water and frequently shrouded in a miasmic cloud of foul-smelling air.

  ‘Take her out, Mr Parry, if you please. Set a course for Madeira. Let us show a clean pair of heels to the Dons of Cadiz.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

  With bare feet balancing on the foot-ropes, sails ungasketted, and canvas cradled in arms ready to loose, the topmen awaited the call to make sail. On deck the landsmen, idlers and waisters stood poised one hand on a line, sheet or brace, ready to ease or haul according to the call.

  The fore and main courses clattered down noisily and the yards creaked as they were braced around but, once filled, the grey canvas submitted to the wind in silence. Aloft, the sailors toiled in unison without a word being spoken, and with the helm over, the frigate heeled like a stalk of ripe barley in the face of a steady breeze. Perpetual was under way.

  ‘Madeira it is, sir,’ Mr Parry confirmed.

  Madeira. What memories that destination conjured up in Oliver’s mind. It was about a year since he had visited Susanna. A long year of waiting, half of it without occupation. He considered how many times his thoughts had returned to the island. Too many times. For him, thinking of her was an escape from reality, a mental and physical self-indulgence, a retreat from the humdrum, but mostly a closely guarded refuge that no one but he could enter. At last he was returning in person and soon he would be with her again, albeit only for a short time. His one concern was that the ship carrying his letter had arrived safely. He wondered what her reaction had been on receiving the news. Positive, he hoped.

  Then he questioned his presumptions. Was it possible she no longer resided on the island? Perhaps she was living in England or Portugal. Perhaps she had married again. She had served more than a respectable time as a widow and was a handsome, eligible woman, nay – in his eyes she was beautiful. What man would not think so? Casting the negative thoughts from his mind, he trusted she would be as pleased to see him as he to see her. The heaviness in his groin confirmed his own feelings.

  As Oliver Quintrell headed forward, the men coiling lines moved aside and showed their obedience. A few hesitated, as if about to speak but thought better of it. The only word, ‘Capt’n,’ was mumbled by a few.

  Oliver regarded each leathered face, remembering some, not as names, but as hands on the various vessels he had commanded. Some were easy to place, like the man with half a face discharged from the Haslar Hospital and foisted onto his previous crew by the Clerk of the Cheque in Portsmouth. And the man with the badly burnt torso, who when fully dressed displayed no sign of injury. Mr Parry had spoken up on behalf of both these men and, although he had been disinclined to accept them, he had conceded to his first lieutenant’s request and neither seamen had let him down.

  Smithers, a topman curled his lip showing a pair of crooked black teeth, the only ones in his head. He was a sailor, liked by few, who disparaged everything and everybody, yet he was as surefooted as a tailless ape and as agile in the rigging as any Captain of the Top could wish for.

  When the bell in the belfry announced the dog watch, the starboard crew climbed down to the mess. Being the first night at sea, table mates had not been chosen though the cooper had already selected his seat and was particular as to the sailors who joined him.

  After being spurned by one group who swore they’d choke if they had to share a table with a Chinaman, a Lascar or an African, Ekundayo wandered down the mess looking for a place to ea
t.

  ‘Hey, you there,’ Bungs yelled. ‘You can sit yer body ‘ere, if you ain't got bugs.’

  The sailor nodded, slid along the sea chest opposite the cooper, but said nothing.

  ‘You can talk, can’t you?’

  The Negro nodded.

  ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Eku,’ the sailor replied.

  ‘Eku. I never heard that one before. But you’ll sit here with us, because I need to hear a few new yarns. I get tired of the same old stories day after day.’

  John Muffin sitting in the corner didn’t respond. That suited Bungs, who accepted him as one of his mess mates, not for the sake of new knowledge but, for the fact that, throughout the last cruise, he always ate his meals in silence and, even after finishing, said nothing at all. Muffin’s choice of seat was against the ship’s hull where he rested his head against the timber. Having sailed together before, Bungs knew that for the greater part of every mealtime he usually appeared to be sleeping.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ the cooper bellowed, grabbing the elbow of the lad passing the table. ‘What are you doing on one of His Majesty’s ships?’

  The boy struggled to release his arm.

  ‘Ain’t you got a tongue in your head either?’

  ‘I can talk,’ Tommy argued.

  ‘Well, I expects a straight answer when I asks a question. And none of your lip or I’ll give you a taste of this.’

  ‘Stow it, Bungs,’ Muffin said quietly. ‘Leave the lad alone.’

  Bungs unclenched his fist and thumped it on the table. ‘He’s all right,’ he said, indicating for Eku to slide along the bench and for the boy to sit next to him. ‘I know why you’re here. You’re like all the other powder monkeys – you’re looking for a quick passage to the hereafter.’ Bungs laughed. ‘Ain’t that right? What say you, Eku?’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing, Mister. I just listening. I learn quick.’

  ‘Aye, well, so long as you don’t get too clever for your boots.’

  ‘The nigger ain’t got no boots,’ Muffin said, smiling. ‘Didn’t you see him on the dock when we came aboard?’