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

by M. C. Muir

  ‘And once it was painted, no one noticed.’

  ‘Only good thing is that it was above water level.’

  Oliver raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you bosun, I will speak with the carpenter. Let us hope we have no more planks from the same tree or any more loose rings in the hull securing the guns’ breechings.’

  ‘I can assure you the rings are firm, Capt’n. I’ve been right around and checked them all.’

  Oliver wondered how a man could put sufficient pressure on an eyebolt to equal the recoil of a cannon weighing several tons, but he did not dispute the bosun’s statement.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but Hobbles said the crew man had noticed some movement in the ring when the gun was hauled up ready for firing. He said the Negro tried to alert the midshipman, but Mr Atherstone wouldn’t take any notice of him. Then he tried to stop Hobbles from firing, but of course Hobbles couldn’t hear him, so when he saw the middie mouth the word, fire, that’s what he did.’

  ‘Had no one checked the eyes bolts recently? Isn’t that one of your regular duties?’

  The bosun nodded. ‘We do check, but we can’t really judge.’

  ‘Then I suggest you find a way of doing so in future. It is likely John Grimes will lose his leg because of this malfunction, that is, if he survives. Perhaps you and your mates will pay more attention in future.’

  ‘Aye, Capt'n. We will.’

  ‘In the meantime I will speak with the carpenter and have him check all the planking.’

  Shipworm, borers, mice and rats were the elements a sea captain learned to share his space with in tolerable harmony, but dry rot was something he could well do without.

  Eku winced as a sailor from the next mess table, brushed across his weeping back.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with me, I heal quick. Don’t you know we blacks got leather skin just like that of a sea lion or a right whale?’

  ‘Aye,’ Muffin laughed, ‘and your back looks like a carcase that the whalers half-flensed before throwing it back. I reckon them pink stripes will look real pretty when they’re healed.’

  The laughter stopped abruptly when Bungs joined them at the table. It was unusual for him to be late for a meal.

  ‘Have you seen Grimes?’ Muffin said.

  Bungs nodded.

  ‘How is he?’ Eku asked, wincing as he leaned forward.

  ‘The surgeon says he’s not good. His leg’s broken to splinters, and his ankle bones will be good for nothing but a game of jacks on the deck. He says if the leg goes bad he’ll have to take it off, but that he’s never likely to walk on it again as it is.’

  ‘Best have it off then and have done with it, I reckon.’

  ‘Bloody bad luck,’ Muffin said. ‘His leg looked a bloody mess.’

  ‘He told me, he tried to jump out of the gun's road but he wasn’t quick enough. But he asked me to thank you for trying to stop Hobbles from firing.’

  Eku shook his head in frustration. ‘I should have grabbed the match from Hobbles’ hand, but I wasn’t close enough.’

  ‘It weren’t right you getting a flogging for it,’ Tommy argued. ‘Why didn’t you tell the captain what happened. You should have stood up for what you saw and what you tried to do. That’s what my ma always told me.’

  ‘Them rules might work back home, lad, but on a ship it’s different. The navy’s got its own set of rules and I don’t mean the ones we are always reminded of. Remember this – rule number one – never argue with an officer. See where it got me.’

  Bungs nodded. ‘Eku’s right. On His Majesty’s ships, it’s best if you keeps your trap shut, you does your duty and you don’t question anything them in the blue uniforms say. Stick by that and you’ll be all right – but even then, there’s still no guarantees. Sometimes,’ Bungs explained, ‘one of them officers takes a dislike to a foremast Jack – like Atherstone has with Eku here. Hard to know why he’ll pick on a particular tar, maybe he don’t like the colour of his skin, or where he comes from, or maybe the man reminds him of someone who once offended him. Seems there’s neither rhyme nor reason for it, but when it happens, that young upstart, who thinks he’s somebody, can make a man’s life a misery. I’ve seen it before on other ships. One sailor, I knew, was so picked on, he tossed himself overboard. At least that’s what was said, as he disappeared one night and no one ever saw him again.’

  ‘So it don’t really matter if you keep your nose clean and do as you’re told, because you’re damned anyway.’

  ‘Ignore what Muffin’s saying,’ Bungs advised. ‘Eku can look after himself, and you’ve nothing to worry about, lad. You told me yourself the captain did you a favour once before.’

  ‘That’s more than he’s done for anyone else aboard this ship,’ Muffin added, cynically.

  ‘Hey! Shut it, you. Captain Quintrell’s a fair man. He might have dragged us to hell and back but he always brought us through it safe and sound. And if we’re lucky by the time this cruise is done, there’ll be a pocketful of prize money waiting for us back in Portsmouth.’

  Tommy looked at his black friend.

  ‘Don’t depend on it, lad. We haven’t seen an enemy ship since we left the North Atlantic, and right now there’s no war in the Pacific because all the ships are busy fighting in the Channel or Mediterranean. Only chance we’ll get of prizes is when we’re heading back to Europe.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure. They say Napoleon is building a fleet of ships that’ll be faster than ours. I reckon it won’t be long before he’s sending some to the Pacific.’

  ‘Didn’t you say, he’ll not come here to fight?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘It’ll not be the fighting that brings him,’ Bungs said. ‘It’ll be the Spanish treasure ships loaded with silver bars, and chests full of doubloons and dollars from the sale of slaves. As tempting as rind to a rat. You mark my words, we’ll meet some Frenchies afore long.’

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ Simon Parry said, as he stepped into the captain’s cabin.

  Oliver nodded but barely lifted his head from the stack of papers, logs and account books scattered on his desk in front of him. ‘This aspect of my work is tedious. I am sure you can relate to that.’

  ‘Indeed, I can.’

  ‘Please, sit,’ he said, sorting through them to retrieve the piece he required. ‘This is Mr Atherstone’s report. I ask you to read it and offer your comments. I understand you were not witness to the event which occurred yesterday.’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. I was forward at the time.’

  ‘Unfortunate, indeed,’ Oliver said, handing the paper to his first lieutenant. ‘As you know, Mr Atherstone laid charges against Ekundayo. This is the third time he had accused the sailor of insubordination. The first time was associated with a charge of theft, but when the item turned up, he agreed to withdraw the allegation. The second time was insubordination and disobeying orders during practice, and this is the latest incident which occurred with the gun.’ Oliver shook his head. He could well do without this type of problem. ‘Remind me,’ he said, ‘how long has this young midshipman been aboard?’

  ‘It’s ten days since we sailed from Valdivia.’

  ‘Ten days!’ Running his claw-like forefinger through his greasy hair, Oliver tucked the stray strands behind his ear. ‘Do you know of anyone aboard who has sailed with Mr Atherstone on a previous voyage?’

  ‘No, but I can make some discrete enquiries, if you wish.’

  ‘What puzzles me,’ Oliver said, ignoring the question put to him, ‘is that a well-bred, intelligent and efficient midshipman of a relatively mature age, having already served almost six years, appears to be undermined by the presence of one particular seaman in his division.’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘As captain, I had no alternative but to address the charges, and deal judiciously with them. Yet, as a man, I could find no fault with the sailor. Similarly, and more puzzlingly, I find no fault with the midshipman
who brought the charges.’

  He thought for a moment and then continued. ‘Mr Atherstone is always punctual, polite and dispenses his duties efficiently. He writes an excellent log and presents his daily reports in a remarkably noteworthy fashion. I understand he performs well in the sailing master’s classes and climbs the rigging as nimbly as any topman. Besides those things, he stands out from the other middies both by the cut and neatness of his dress and by his mannerisms.’

  Despite his own dislike of the Admiralty’s adherence to patronage and privilege, Oliver had to admit that it was often men of such breeding who rose to become great Admirals.

  Was it because of his apparent breeding that Atherstone appeared aloof regarding fellowship and was not an integral member of the midshipmen’s berth? Perhaps if the Honourable Algernon Biggleswade Smythe had not been dispatched along with Captain Liversedge in the North Atlantic, the pair might have a found common ground, if not through their respected families, then at least through the common pursuits enjoyed by members of the upper class.

  In Oliver’s estimation, Mr Atherstone needed some distraction. His preoccupation with duty was admirable but it was all consuming, to the extent it blocked out any hint of good humour, bonhomie, chivalrous thoughts and mateship. The gulf between officer and men had to be maintained, but it was a fine line to tread. And it was a problem all officers encountered at some time in their careers.

  To maintain discipline on his ship, a captain must discourage familiarity between senior officers and seamen, but the rift must not be so great as to breed contempt, jealousy or hatred. And it was not for the captain of any ship to try to change a man’s nature. He must accept both officers and men for what they were. But allegiances were important and, in Oliver’s opinion, true friendships formed in the midshipmen’s mess and wardroom were important bonds that an officer would carry with him from the day he passed the examination for lieutenant, to his first command, and later to his appointment as Admiral.

  Oliver smirked at his own conclusion. He had arrived back at the question of privilege between friends that carried with it an unwritten obligation that could be called on at any time. A favour to the son of a fellow officer who you had sailed with for twenty years. Or for the nephew of a long-dead post captain, whose esteemed brother you had messed with as a fifteen-year-old midshipman a decade ago. It was of some consolation to Oliver that Earl St Vincent held a mutual feeling of disapproval of promotion through privilege and patronage within the service.

  For his own part, his path had been unconventional, to say the least. He had been born on the heeling deck of a stinking herring boat, and cut his teeth on the gunnels. He had thrown and lost his first lead-line by the age of five and suffered the due consequences. And he had doubled the Horn several times before his tenth birthday.

  Times of toil and terror had faded from his memory, but the thrill of a rolling sea and the sound of the rigging singing in the wind had never left him. Aboard his father’s packet, he had sailed from Boston and plied the Americas both north and south, and crossed the Atlantic several times. He thanked his father for all the practical things he knew – and for ensuring that in the winter when the ship was out of the water, he attended nautical school to learn all that his father and the sea could not teach him.

  On entering the Royal Navy, he had learned to adapt to a regimented way of life and had become intimately familiar with the rules to which the navy stringently adhered, though he did not agree with them all. He had seen the impress gangs at work, had even mustered men for ships on which he served. But he also remembered running from the Press as a lad and hiding in the cellar of an inn. At a tender age, running from the gang was a challenge. The ones who were caught were the old hands, the drunks, the sick and those who had been injured, not the fit young coves that the navy really needed.

  By the time he entered as a middie, there was nothing about the sea with which he was not familiar, either practically or theoretically – he had been well schooled – which aggravated the ship’s schoolmaster no end.

  In Oliver’s opinion, a love for the sea was something a man must have coursing through his veins from an early age for it could not be acquired or taught no matter how many classes and examinations were attended.

  The sea, despite all its fickle faces, was part of him. Even now, the call of full and by sent a tingle running down his spine. The wind was his companion. The thrum of the rigging his music. The thud of a wave on the bow – his pulse. The aqua-marine of a tropical atoll, the gold-dusted spindrift in the setting sun, even the star-speckled black sky at night were all part of the rich palette which coloured his world. If only he could paint in the fashion of artists who captured such images on canvas. He envied them.

  From the ship’s rail, the Atacama coastline dissolved in a haze of mauve against a violet sky. Here the land encompassed a totally different world – harsh, dry, extreme and uninviting. For Oliver Quintrell, the sea was his comfort and companion and, when licking her salt from his lips, he had no doubt she was his mistress. Despite her foibles and fickleness, moods and mysteries, she was soft and sensuous, beguiling in her calms and tantalizing in her tantrums. She was the force which heaved beneath him everyday and cradled him to sleep every night. By constantly challenging him, it was the sea who made him fearless (not reckless), and eventually it was the sea who would receive him into her arms on the final day of reckoning.

  Chapter 17

  The Challenge

  Having followed a northerly course as far as the Tropic of Capricorn, assisted in part along the Chilean coast by the cold north-flowing Humboldt Current, the frigate turned seaward and headed in a north-westerly direction to 15° south latitude. Not far from here, Perpetual again regained sight of the coast at it neared its destination.

  It had been five weeks since he had left Valdivia and Oliver trusted that when the frigate arrived in Callao he would find Compendium anchored in the roadstead. He was eager to meet with the naval officer dubbed Boris the Florist and wondered if Captain Crabthorne would live up to the preconceived image he had formed in his mind.

  From the freezing waters of the straits navigated by Magellan, the crew was now confronted with tropical heat and often unsympathetic winds. As they neared the Peruvian port, the crystal clear morning air of the far south was replaced by the same misty miasma they had encountered off the Atacama coast – a fog that often failed to clear by midday. This strange sea fret provided a palpable dampness that made visibility difficult. As such, because Lima’s port was a busy mercantile harbour, with ships arriving from North America and from across the Pacific, with a veil of mist enveloping everything, a cautious approach was essential.

  Another concern Oliver shared with his sailing master was the nature of the coast. From both memory and the chart, it was littered with rocky islands, a few large and many small ones, all pitted with caves and caverns that provided ideal breeding grounds for hundreds of seals, sea lions and penguins, and the thousands of seabirds whose dropping coated the rocks in a thick carpet of white.

  The largest island, San Lorenzo, was rocky, barren and inhospitable. It was a long slender piece of land resting on a north-west to south-east axis. Sitting two miles from the mainland, it offered natural protection to the port of Callao and the city of Lima less than ten miles ride inland. But, together with a peninsula jutting out from the land leaving only a narrow channel between the two, it also contributed to the conflicting currents flowing around the island.

  Despite that, after weeks of battling the prevailing winds of the Pacific Ocean, Oliver looked forward to whatever protection the island could offer. But always at the back of his mind were the memories he held.

  As a boy, he had shivered to the island’s name and had never forgotten the stories he had heard. That it was inhabited by ghosts, and its steep sides, which rose almost 1,000 feet into the clouds, were a stairway to the afterlife. But whether it was haunted or cursed had never deterred the English and Dutch pirates who, fo
r more than two centuries, had landed there, perished there and been buried there. Suffice to say, such rumours and a total lack of fresh water meant the island was uninhabited and therefore was no threat to passing ships.

  But it was not the island’s history that currently bothered Oliver. His present concern was the currents which ran around it.

  After charting a course for San Lorenzo Island, Perpetual cleared the island and approached Callao from the north-west. Once in the roadstead, the captain was delighted to learn from the lookout that a British frigate was in the harbour. It could only be Compendium. Shortly after, following an exchange of signals, a boat headed towards them.

  When the visiting captain was piped aboard and stepped onto Perpetual’s deck, a few eyebrows were raised together with a few sly grins exchanged between the junior officers. But, apart from a brief greeting by Captain Quintrell and an introduction to Mr Parry, there were no other formalities and within minutes of arriving, Captain Crabthorne was conducted below to the great cabin where the captain’s steward was waiting with a tray of refreshments.

  ‘We meet at last,’ Oliver said, after inviting his visitor to be seated.

  ‘Entirely my pleasure,’ Boris Crabthorne said, dabbing the sweat from his brow. ‘However, I presume this is not a chance meeting? Would I be correct in assuming that you arrived in this harbour under Admiralty orders to locate me and my ship?’

  ‘You are correct, sir.’

  ‘Then I must apologize for having led you on a merry chase. The voyage here took much longer than anticipated.’

  ‘But, despite the time taken, the fact that you have arrived safely and with a sound ship is surely something worthy of celebrating.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Crabthorne said, pausing to collect his thoughts, then waiting until Casson had left and the cabin door was firmly closed. ‘Worthy indeed,’ he continued, ‘and I thank the Lord that I have arrived intact. However, I find myself in an embarrassing and awkward situation because I have been unable to complete my mission. My purpose, in speaking with you so presumptuously, is to beg your assistance to help me rectify that problem.’