by M. C. Muir
Accompanying the high-pitched peeping of a fife was the whine of a violin and the tapping of shoes jigging to a jolly tune. Most hands, congregating in the waist or on the foredeck quickly forgot the reason for the break in daily routine. Many didn’t care, they were just happy to amuse themselves at their leisure. The handful of sailors who had never crossed the Equator before were relieved to hear the Captain’s order for it excused them from being subjected to the discomforts of the traditional sea-going initiation. Only a small group, who had never sailed with Captain Quintrell previously, were peeved that their sadistic performance had not been permitted. The old Elusives were grateful to take their ease, a few reflecting on the past, but saying nothing.
In the bow, leaning against a mat of coiled lines, Eku and Tommy listened to the music.
‘You’re lucky, lad,’ Eku said. If it weren’t for the captain’s orders, you might have found yourself kissing a fish, or being sprinkled with the droppings from the manger, or even having to crawl across the deck and kiss Smithers’ feet.’
‘Is that what happened to you when you crossed the line.’
‘Shhh!’ Eku said, holding his finger to his lips. ‘I ain’t crossed the line either. No one but you knows it, and I don’t plan to tell anyone else.’
After a brief stop at Recife to take on water and collect fuel for the fire-hearth, Perpetual headed south and Oliver revealed his intentions to his officers.
‘We have wasted enough time already and will proceed directly to the Horn. I do not intend to venture into Guanabara Bay or the River Plate, as a visit to each port will add another two or three days to our sailing time. The ship now has sufficient drinking water aboard and the purser advises me, we have ample provisions to last more than six months.
‘It is time, therefore for you to inform the men of the conditions they can expect as we move into the higher latitudes. Our timing is favourable as mid-summer in the southern hemisphere is upon is. However, do not allow the men to become complacent. Even in summer we can be confronted with ice and snow and blizzard as we sail further south.’
He continued, ‘You are at liberty to inform the men that I have chosen to sail west through the Strait of Magellan. This decision is not to avoid the Horn, but to follow the route taken by Captain Crabthorne in the naval frigate, Compendium.
‘It will not be easy navigating a passage through the myriad of channels as our charts are probably incomplete, but I have discussed this matter with the sailing master and we are confident of success. If any of you young gentlemen have had the privilege of wandering through the sculptured hedgerows of
Hampton Court’s maze, I can warn you that navigating through this maritime puzzle will not be nearly as simple.’ Glances were exchanged between two of the midshipmen.
‘Let me remind you, however, that Ferdinand Magellan made the passage nearly two-hundred years ago, with a crew half-dead from scurvy, during the wrong season of the year, and with only the stars to guide him. In comparison, we have charts, a sound ship, a favourable season, and modern instruments of navigation to assist us. However, no ship can function well without every man performing his duty. All hands must be alert whenever on deck and must report any unusual sights or sounds. If Captain Crabthorne has foundered in these waters, I intend to find him.’
After struggling to round Cape Virgenes, Perpetual headed west across the sheltered expanse of water which separated the south coast of South America from the Island of Tierra del Fuego. To the north was the uninviting barren coast of Patagonia sparsely inhabited by brigands, Indians, strange animals and wild horses. To the south the desolate island of fire – named by Magellan himself, for the columns of smoke he saw rising from its precipitous gullies.
The voyage along this early part of the Strait was uneventful, the sailing good, the only noteworthy items were obvious to everyone. The tall kelp which rose from a great depth of sea, formed a tan-coloured forest visible just inches below the surface. Though it swayed easily with the currents, it slowed the ship’s forward momentum and could endanger the ship if it became entangled around the rudder. The colonies of seals taking possession of some of the rocky outcrops were also remarkable. Covering almost every square inch of them, the indolent creatures appeared disinterested in the passing ship. The cormorants, however, squawked noisily from small islands not selected by the seals. The dropping of tens of thousands of black-winged birds had transformed the rock from grey to white - the same colour reflected in the snow and ice cloaking the mountains that dominated the scenery ahead of them.
Reduced to reefed topsails and staysails, Perpetual’s speed slowed to barely a few knots as the frigate entered the passage cutting through the tail of the Andes – the ancient mountain range stretching the full length of the South American continent that crumbled into the sea at Cape Horn. Within the maze it created, channels extended in all directions presenting the captain with a nautical conundrum. Which was the safest way to go? Some passages were too narrow. Some were blocked with ice. Some led nowhere. Others were too shallow. Some initially appeared inviting but on closer investigation masked underwater hazards waiting to claw the bottom from an unsuspecting ship.
Oliver knew that his transit through the channels would take many days, but insisted Perpetual only sail in daylight. Even then, much of the distance would require men on the lead on both port and starboard sides, and another in a boat sailing, or being rowed ahead of them.
Captain Quintrell prayed for light airs, sufficient to carry his ship safely through. A gale of wind could dash the frigate upon the rocks and in that location there would be no passing ships to come to their aid. In any case, it would be unlikely anyone would survive in that region long enough to be rescued.
Chapter 11
The Shipwreck
With no experienced pilot aboard Perpetual, navigation was a headache for the sailing master and Captain Quintrell. Referring to the only Admiralty chart available, its shortcomings soon became apparent. Not only was the mapping incomplete but it soon proved to be both inaccurate and misleading. It also lacked details relating to depths, channel widths and the gradient of the slopes sliding into the water.
To gather some information, a boat was lowered and rowed ahead of the frigate, but as the convolutions of the channels and distribution of the hundreds of tributaries could not be seen from water level, observations had to be made and reported from the masthead. Like the fickle winds in the region. The strength, direction and rate of flow of the currents concealed beneath the pocked-pewter surface were also unknown factors. Estimations of the tides bearing in from both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans could be made from prior knowledge, but the insidious undertow, swept in from the wild seas whipping around Cape Horn, was totally unpredictable.
‘Deck there!’
‘What do you see?’
‘Looks like a mast-head.’
‘Where away?’
‘Around yon starboard headland. Just coming into view.’
The first lieutenant looked along the deck, ‘Mr Tully, you’ve got good eyes, get up top with a glass. Tell me if it’s a naval frigate.’
There was little point in shortening sail, with virtually no discernable wind, the courses were furled and the topsails barely luffing. Perpetual was lucky to be making two knots but with the number of rocks and scattered islands littering the channel, the snail’s pace was quite acceptable.
‘It’s a ship all right,’ the lookout called, as the frigate swam slowly around the headland. ‘Not a frigate. Three masts Square rigged on all three.’
‘She must have foundered,’ the first lieutenant said.
‘Anyone aboard?’ Oliver called.
‘Looks deserted. Looks like she’s been there a while. Sails are in tatters.’
A disturbing picture quickly formed in Oliver’s mind. He thought it unlikely a storm could have beaten so fiercely in this location to have shredded a ship’s sails. Yet, if its canvas had been torn to shreds in the Southern Ocean, i
t would have been impossible for it to navigate this distance through the channels. It puzzled him.
‘What you do make of it, Simon?’
‘A wreck, no doubt. Do want me to order the boat to investigate?’
‘No. Recall the boat for the present.’
The captain hailed the masthead again. ‘I presume she is showing no colours.’
‘No colours,’ the masthead confirmed.
He spoke his thoughts aloud to his first lieutenant. ‘So we have no idea if this is friend or foe. I feel caution is the best policy in this inhospitable part of the world. Let us show our colours, if you please, Mr Parry.’
‘Mr Lazenby, run up the colours.’
‘Aye, aye.’
‘And all hands on deck,’ Oliver requested. ‘But quietly does it. And run out the guns on the starboard side.’
‘Mr Nightingale, you heard the captain. Quietly now. No pipes. No whistles. No calls.’
A wisp of wind filled the topsails for a moment. They quivered then fell away, but it was sufficient to carry Perpetual forward a full ship’s length, leaving behind barely a ripple on the slate-grey water.
High above, several black specks dotted the clear blue sky. Resting on the air currents, they appeared lifeless – their size, type and purpose indeterminable.
Condors, Oliver thought. Scavengers.
On the gun deck, the crews toiled methodically in the well-practiced routine. The re-shuffle of the gun crews had been achieved without complaint, as it didn’t matter if a man worked alongside a mess-mates or a sailor he had never spoken to before. Each man knew his role and though he performed it independently, he was merely a spoke in a well-worn wheel.
‘Report, please, Mr Tully. Anything remarkable?’
‘I thought I saw some movement on the cap-rail but she looks deserted. There are barrels and swivel guns on deck and her hatches are closed. Strange though, the lines have been loosed from the pin rails and are hanging free. Looks like they’ve been sheared off.’
Mr Tully was a good man, a bit rough around the edges, had served less than two years as a midshipman, but had logged several years before the mast. Having acted as a bosun’s mate, he knew rigging better than the veins on the back of his hand, so neither the Captain nor Mr Parry questioned his opinion.
‘Sergeant,’ Oliver called. ‘I want sharp shooters aloft and ready by the time we have the wreck in full view.’
With the order relayed to the marines, the thumping of boots and the clatter of muskets fractured the silence. ‘Quietly, sergeant! And no firing unless we are fired upon.’
With snow covered peaks rising steeply from the channel surrounding them and unknown depths hidden beneath the hull, the frigate drifted slowly around the headland, bringing the wreck into view.
‘Mr Parry, I want a shot placed a dozen yards from her bow. Perhaps that will draw a response.’
Two minutes later, amidst a cloud of smoke sliced by a blue and orange flame, a gun resounded and bounded back to the twang of the preventers. Perpetual shivered, while on deck all eyes waited for the loud thwack as the ball shattered the rock face before spinning off into the water. While a few spontaneous cries of huzzah were uttered from the gun crew, much to the annoyance of the division’s officer, there was no response from the ship sitting uncomfortably astride a submerged rock.
‘Lower my boat, Mr Parry. I intend to go aboard. I will require my regular crew plus a couple of marines. Kindly issue pistols and cutlasses to every man – and to the other boat also.’
‘You have a bad feeling about this?’
Without answering, Oliver sniffed the air. The smell was unmistakable. Sweet. Sour. Putrid. The smell of death.
While the second boat was being swayed out, Casson appeared from below, the captain’s sword and pistol in his hands.
‘Thank you,’ Oliver said.
‘Go careful, Capt’n.’
Though he did not answer and showed no response, Oliver Quintrell appreciated his steward’s genuine concern. Pushing the pistol beneath his belt, he crossed the deck and stood for a moment waiting till his boat crew had taken their places and the marines were settled in the boat. But, as he descended the ladder, a shot rang out from the crosstrees. The puff of smoke hovering around the head of one of the marines made it easy to identify the culprit who had fired his musket.
‘Get that man down here immediately,’ Oliver cried, stepping back onto the deck. ‘I want to know what he was firing at. I explicitly ordered no shots.’
The youth, afraid of heights and unused to the ratlines, climbed awkwardly. It was more difficult to climb down carrying a rifle than to climb up. The sergeant was waiting impatiently at the gunnel. ‘Tell the captain why you discharged your musket,’ he ordered.
Shaking so badly, the pimple-faced youth could hardly hold his rifle still.
‘Have you never been into the top before?’ Oliver asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then a spell in the rigging would be recommended punishment, but that is for your sergeant to determine. Now tell me, did your gun go off accidentally or did you fire at something in particular?’
‘I fired, sir. I thought I saw a brown head pop up from behind the rail. Then it disappeared, but when I saw it again, I was afraid that whoever it was might have spotted me, so I fired.’
‘Mr Tully, did you see any movement on the wreck?’
Everyone was eager to hear the midshipman’s response.
‘Aye, Capt’n, plenty of movement. Rats, sir. Lots of rats. Moving along the length of the cap-rail like waves on the far horizon. They’re even up on the yards.’
Captain Quintrell was satisfied. ‘Heave to. Let go the anchor, Mr Parry. Have the guns secured but keep the men at their stations. Mr Nightingale, be so good as to accompany me in my boat and bring your pencil and paper. Mr Tully you will take charge of the second boat.’
‘Will cutlasses still be needed?’
‘Yes,’ Oliver replied, ‘and grappling irons.’
‘I doubt you’ll find anyone aboard her,’ the sailing master said, knowingly.
‘I am quite cognizant of that, Mr Greenleaf.’
‘Hope there’s a chance of refitting her and floating her home.’ The chance of prize money was never far from the master’s thoughts.
‘I shall only be able to ascertain that when I have stepped aboard and determined the whereabouts and welfare of her crew, the damage to her hull and the amount of water she has swallowed. Then, and only then, will I make a decision as to her fate. Let me remind you, sir, I am under Admiralty orders, and capturing prizes is not my priority.’
There was nothing to be gained by raising the sail on either the pinnace or the cutter, as there was insufficient wind to carry the boats and the distance to be rowed was only two cables’ lengths. When the boats swam closer, the name carved on the ship’s stern came into view. It was a long time since it had benefitted from a coat of paint but it was still legible – Adelina.
As soon as the captain’s boat bumped alongside the part-submerged hull, grapples were thrown, but before anyone could haul themselves up the side, a rat scurried down the rope and fell into the boat between the men’s legs. The infantile squeals and curses from the usually orderly crew raised a slight smile on Quintrell’s face. The men of his boat crew, whose faces showed no emotion when faced with a full broadside, displayed the response of a group of women when confronted with a mouse in the parlour.
‘For goodness sake, sit still!’ Oliver called. ‘Once on board, however, you have my full permission to dispose of as many of these creatures as you care to. But don’t let them near you. I’ll not suffer their lice aboard my ship.’
With the offending rat grabbed by the tail and tossed overboard and the grapples secure, Froyle was the first man to climb aboard. On reaching the rail, he carefully lifted his cutlass and watched as another rat measuring over a foot from head to tail, ran towards him. One slice from his blade cleaved it in two.
&nb
sp; ‘Thought you were a canny blighter, did you?’ Froyle yelled, ‘Well you’re not so lively without your head.’
The spontaneous cheering from the men in the boat was not condoned by the captain.
‘Silence,’ the coxswain cried, and not another word was uttered. Within minutes, rope ladders were rigged, one forward and the other aft, then both crews clambered to the deck.
Stepping aboard Adelina, Oliver was astounded at the amount of damage the rats had done. Marks on the deck lockers indicated where the rodents had gnawed the timber in an attempt to reach the contents. They had also chewed the wooden blocks, cleaning every morsel of fat from them. They had even eaten through some of the greased standing rigging and severed the hempen lines from the pin rails. But more obnoxious than the rodents’ smell was the unholy stench exuding from the gratings.
‘I warn you,’ Oliver repeated. ‘Don’t let them bite you.’
A sound on the deck, like the click of a heel, alerted everyone. It came from the stout handle of a whip which rolled when the ship lifted slightly on the pulse of the distant Pacific tide. While the tip of the whip had been eaten away, more than a yard of its tail was stuck firmly to the deck by a streak of hard black matter. ‘Rhinoceros hide, if I am not mistaken.’ The captain commented. ‘Mr Nightingale, I would like a sketch, if you please.’
‘Take a look here, Captain,’ Mr Tully called, pointing to a pile of stripped bones and scraps of cloth which had once clothed one of the crew. It appeared that the hand that had wielded the whip had received its due deserts either from the rats or vultures. Preferring carrion to live prey, and caring little if the meal was human or animal, sharp beaks and talons would have ripped the skin from their victim in a matter of minutes. Following the scavengers, the rats would have waited their chance to pick the remaining meat from the scattered bones.