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

by M. C. Muir

‘Begging your pardon, Captain, there is a volunteer who came aboard at the same time as the doctor. He has asked permission to sign. He would make up the round dozen and he has served with you before.’

  ‘Name and rate?’

  ‘Thomas Wainwright. He was powder money when he sailed last but he’s now almost seventeen years.’

  With a sharp prod in the back from the cooper, Tommy stepped forward.

  Oliver showed no signs of recognition, but he did glance down to the sailor’s left hand. ‘You may add this man’s name to the muster-book, Mr Parry. I believe the surgeon is in need of a loblolly.’

  Tommy opened his mouth. ‘Thank you, Captain, I just wanted to—’

  ‘Silence there!’ Mr Parry ordered. ‘Mr Tully, a boat if you please. Have the captain’s crew row these men ashore. Mr Gibb and Mr Hanson lend a hand. Look lively now!’

  While the men waited for the boat to be lowered, it suddenly dawned on the fellow with the red hair what his lie had sentenced him to.

  ‘Why did you make me stick me hand up?’ he yelled, swinging a punch at the man next to him. ‘I ain’t never been in jail in my life.’

  Within seconds the pair was tearing at each other’s throats but a few clouts about the head from the bosun’s starter quickly brought the fight to a stop.

  ‘Marines, escort these two below!’ Oliver ordered. ‘And make sure, when the Articles of War are read to them, they take special notice of the penalty for fighting.’

  Purposely detaching himself from any further commotion, the surgeon removed himself to the taffrail at the stern of the ship. He much preferred to cast his eyes over the silky smooth water and observe the ship’s boat lolling lethargically as it waited to receive its passengers.

  Like the men the press-gang had brought in, he was somewhat perplexed by the captain’s method of selection. It appeared to make no sense. But he was in no position to argue. In times of war, many seamen served as cannon fodder and it made not the slightest difference whether they had sailed to Spithead, the Saint Lawrence or the South Seas, or if they had spent time in Newgate Prison or the Black Hole of Calcutta.

  A few hours later, the captain’s choice of pressed men was argued over by the foremast, but the heated discussion was short lived. It was a situation that had happened before and would happen again and, no matter what was said, the opinions held by the men would have no bearing on the selection.

  When Bungs had had his say, which everyone was obliged to listen to, he slapped Tommy on the back. ‘Don’t worry about what the captain said about you being the loblolly. I’ll put in a word for you.’

  ‘But I don’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ the cooper argued. ‘What do you want to be a loblolly for? Think of the constant moanin’ and screamin’ in your ears, and bleedin’ stumps peeled back like turnip skin, and the rasp of the saw as it chews through bone. I can tell you now, there’ll be times you’ll be tempted to murder them that won’t lay down and die quietly. I’ll speak with the captain. I’ll tell him I’ll teach you an honest trade – coopering. Then, when the war’s over—’

  ‘And when might that be?’ Smithers piped up.

  ‘Shut your trap, you old cockfart! I ain’t talking to you.’ Bungs turned back to Tommy. ‘Like I said, when this war’s over and long forgotten, you’ll always get work as a cooper. There’ll always be a need for barrels, you mark my words.’

  ‘Aye. That’s if the lad survives long enough.’

  Bungs swung around and lunged for Smithers leaning against the pin rail grabbing his throat with both hands. ‘One of these days, I promise, I’ll stick a stave up your arse and weld an iron girdle around your neck and you’ll never open your mouth again!’

  Smithers pulled himself free, sneered, turned his head and spat into the harbour.

  ‘Stow it, Bungs,’ Tommy said. ‘We all know Smithers’ advice ain’t worth a spoonful of snot. And, I thank you for your offer, and me ma would probably say you’re right, but since the day me little finger was blown off and I spent a spell in the cockpit watching the old surgeon busy slicing and stitching, I thought it would be good to help in there – better than snorting gunpowder and cracking fingernails scraping shot. Funny how things work out,’ he laughed, ‘but I never thought I’d get a chance. Besides, I don’t mind the sight of blood or the cries and curses – it’s better than a lungful of coal dust and the silence of a grave.’

  Tommy looked around, pleased as Punch. ‘Imagine the likes of me, a short-arse, no-good pit urchin, working for an educated toff like the surgeon. Wait ’til I get home to tell me ma.’

  ‘Aye, and wait till the doctor learns that you never stop talking. He’ll nail your tongue to the slab to shut your blab.’

  Tommy laughed. ‘I can see nothing’s changed since I was here before – it’s good to be back.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Midshipman Gibb

  ‘Mr Hanson. Mr Gibb. Hats off! Sit down. The captain’ll not bite you. Not this evening anyway.’

  With little alternative, the pair of newly arrived midshipmen did as Mr Tully instructed taking their places for dinner, one on either side of Jack Mundy, the sailing master.

  Captain Quintrell was already seated at the head of the table and, although engaged in conversation with Mr Parry, his eyes appraised every man as he arrived. Most were familiar faces, seasoned officers who had served under him for the past two years. Absent was Midshipman Smith or, more correctly, the Honourable Archibald Biggleswade Smythe. Mr Smith was on harbour watch together with Mr Nightingale – the third lieutenant, and the other middies.

  Once seated, there was little conversation. Everyone was waiting for the final guest to arrive. Oliver did not need to draw his pocket watch, the ship’s bell having sounded only five minutes earlier. The doctor was late. This was the second time.

  When he arrived, some five minutes later, Dr Whipple offered his host an apology and bade the company good evening. After a polite bow, which was little more than a nod, he took the only vacant chair alongside one of the new midshipmen. Being the only civilian at the table, and not wearing naval uniform, he looked decidedly out of place.

  The captain remained seated. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, directing his words to the younger members of the crew, ‘before we enjoy a sumptuous feast which, I might add, cook has taken hours to prepare, and before we drink a fine wine and some of you become totally distracted from your designated duties, I take this opportunity to introduce to you, Dr Whipple, ship’s surgeon. For those of you who have not yet had the opportunity to speak with him, you will be interested to learn he has recently completed a lengthy sojourn in the Caribbean during which time he, no doubt, accrued many stories. I trust he will share some anecdotes with us over the coming weeks.

  ‘Furthermore,’ the captain continued, addressing his other table guests, ‘I must welcome Midshipmen Gibb and Hanson who came aboard in my absence. As yet, I have not had the opportunity to acquaint myself with either of these young gentlemen, however, that matter will be rectified in the next day or so.’

  The pair, dressed in brand new, slightly oversized uniforms and aged around twelve or thirteen years, smiled self-consciously.

  The arrival of the steward with another bottle of wine broke a little of the early evening’s polite silence. But the captain had not yet finished with the middies.

  ‘Mr Gibb, pray tell us, what are your ambitions in the King’s Navy?’

  With all eyes directed at him, the lad shrank into his coat’s collar.

  ‘Come along, man, we are waiting for your answer.’

  ‘To have my own ship, sir,’ the midshipman said tentatively, ‘and then, perhaps one day, to make Admiral.’

  ‘Lofty ambitions, would you not agree?’

  The company around the table laughed.

  ‘Perhaps, passing the examination for lieutenant should come first,’ Oliver quipped, his face showing no change of expression.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir,’ the boy admi
tted, a rosy flush spreading from beneath his jaw-line to the mass of curly white-blonde hair that rolled down his forehead and over his eyes. At a glance, he had the features of a girl, and a pretty one at that.

  ‘Might I suggest the addition of a ribbon to your hair, Mr Gibb, or you could have it cropped in the manner adopted by some of the beaus in London. We have more than one barber on board who will be happy to oblige you.’

  The surgeon acknowledged the jibe, rubbing his hand across his short bristle-brush coiffure.

  The laughter subsided.

  ‘Answer me this, Gibb,’ the captain continued. ‘Did you never go shooting with your father?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Often, sir.’

  ‘Then I do not need to tell you how difficult it is to recognize a stag’s antlers when gazing through a hedgerow.’

  Obviously embarrassed by the laughter and lacking sufficient worldly experience to comprehend or respond, the midshipman attempted to push his unruly locks behind his ears. But the angelic mop had a will of its own, springing back, determined not to be restrained.

  Captain Quintrell turned his attention back to the surgeon. ‘Doctor, let me now introduce the officers of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate, Perpetual.’

  Going clockwise around the table, he began with Mr Parry sitting on his left. ‘My first lieutenant, whom, I believe, you have met.’

  Simon Parry nodded to the surgeon.

  Next is Mr Benjamin Tully, who will admit to being a little rough around the edges, but is an excellent seaman and well deserving the rank of second lieutenant. Mr Nightingale, my third lieutenant, could not join us as he is providing a watchful eye over the ship. He is a young man with an fine artistic hand, an admirable skill, which is both commendable and very useful. Mr Nightingale has provided me with some remarkable illustrations, for both the ship’s log and my personal journal, from our previous voyages.

  ‘Mr Mundy, our sailing master has served with me the longest of all my officers. I could not wish for a better navigator, although he can be a little feisty at times.’ The captain raised his glass to the Master. ‘And we do not see eye to eye on all matters. Would that be a fair assessment?’

  ‘Well I don’t know about that,’ Jack Mundy replied, with a sly grin.

  ‘Exactly,’ Oliver quipped. ‘Mr Smith, one of my midshipmen is presently biding his time on deck, probably counting each grain of sand as it slips through the hour-glass and adds to his time in the service.

  ‘Finally, Casson,’ he turned his head. ‘Step forward, man, and be introduced. John Casson, my personal steward, is possibly more familiar with my habits than I am myself. Like Jack Mundy, he has sailed with me for several years. A more trusted steward, I could not wish for.’

  Casson didn’t wait for the patter of applause to stop. ‘If you’ll excuse me Captain, I fetch some of the dishes in now.’

  Oliver nodded and continued. ‘Then of course, there are the warrant officers and their mates who you will come to know over time – hopefully not as names entered on your sick list.’

  ‘I trust that is not the case,’ the surgeon replied.

  With the formal introductions over and glasses refilled, the atmosphere mellowed.

  Although no one put the question, Oliver was conscious the company was eagerly anticipating news of his visit to London. ‘Gentlemen, if we gain some wind overnight, we sail tomorrow. And, you will be pleased to learn we will not be spending this coming winter in the northern reaches of the English Channel but heading into warmer, less fractious waters.’

  His announcement was met with a buzz of approval. ‘So, gentlemen, I suggest you enjoy your meal. The fresh delicacies, we are about to receive, will not last long!’

  Another rumble of applause greeted the arrival of the captain’s steward with his assistants carrying an assortment of dishes.

  A steaming suckling pig, garnished with crab-apples, was placed in the centre of the table and next to it a potato and carrot pudding seeded with raisins and topped with green olives. The coup de grâce, however, was a long platter of five roast pigeons perched in a row.

  Casson looked pleased. ‘Them birds is stuffed with plum pudding and chestnuts and baked in the oven with gravy from their own juices. Cook said I should tell you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Oliver said, ‘I am sure they will be delicious. Perhaps you would do the honours, Casson, and assist those who are ready to partake.’

  The midshipmen were eager with their plates.

  ‘Patience gentlemen, there is enough for everyone.’

  After thanking the Lord for his bounties, the meal commenced. For a short while, it was interrupted only by the clatter of knives and forks, smacking of lips and the sound of wine glugging from the bottle.

  Setting his cutlery aside, Dr Whipple wiped his mouth and sat for a moment. ‘I hope it would not be out of turn to congratulate you on your previous cruises, Captain. I heard they were very successful.’

  The forthright nature of the comment took Oliver by surprise. ‘I can only presume you are referring to the taking of prizes, Doctor, and the subsequent sale of the vessels and their contents by the agents?’

  ‘Indeed, Captain. But I did not mean to speak out of turn. However, the success of your last mission was documented publically in the Kingston Chronicle – treasure from the Spanish vice-royalty, if I am not mistaken. The article also reported this was not the first time you had been well rewarded for your efforts.’

  Oliver shot the doctor a disparaging look. ‘Prize money, sir, is an entitlement within the British Navy and it provides the major incentive for men to sign as volunteers. This reward is absent in the French Navy whose crews are little more than a mob of disorganised and dissatisfied scallywags – men who have been dragged from their villages and forced to serve on a fighting ship against their will. The majority of them have no prior knowledge of the sea and are offered no financial incentive whatsoever. The only reward they can look forward to is a quick death, if they are lucky.’

  ‘But,’ the surgeon replied, ‘if I might be so bold as to point out you have eleven men in the hold who I examined only a few hours ago. I understand they were given little choice when pressed into service.’

  The company around the table stopped eating.

  ‘That measure, sir, was taken out of necessity. It requires a certain number of hands to man a frigate such as this. In times of peace, it is not hard to attract volunteers, but in times of war, sailors die and have to be replaced. When there are no volunteers, we must look elsewhere to fill their shoes. The choice of men, who are pressed into service, is not as indiscriminate as you might think. The navy requires experienced seamen not landlubbers, and the impressment gangs can easily identify a recently disembarked sailor by his clothes, his gait and the colour of his skin.

  ‘It is unfortunate for those, like the group held below, that they have recently returned from a long period away from home, so to be taken from the

  London Road and placed on a navy ship may seem unjustifiable to you. However, these men will be paid wages for their time and rewarded for their toil. They will be treated well – unless they misbehave, in which case they will be punished. They will be well fed with regular, adequate rations and if they fall sick on a voyage, or are badly injured in battle, they will receive care from a ship’s surgeon such as yourself. If, as a result of a permanent injury, they are disabled and deemed unfit to serve, then they will be retired from the service and granted a pension for the rest of their lives. But above all, they will play their part in defending Britain from that megalomaniac, Napoleon Bonaparte.’ The captain did not release his gaze on the ship’s surgeon.

  ‘But further to your comment about prize money, the news sheets would be better employed in concentrating on the navy’s successes in battle and not on the amount of prize money awarded to its senior officers. It is the direct result of such information appearing in the Portsmouth papers that my wife has been submitted to a constant line-up of nefarious characters a
rriving at our gate at all hours that God sends. All appear to be beggars and while a few are deserving the others are scoundrels, fraudsters and opportunists. Being in a delicate state of health, such invasions of privacy are distressing to my wife, to say the least. One should not be called upon to defend one’s private abode from such intruders.’

  The doctor opened his mouth to speak but the captain had not finished.

  ‘I would remind you, that according to the division of prize money received from the prize agents, all the men who served with me received their appropriate allocation. But,’ he continued, raising his voice slightly and addressing, not only the surgeon but also the two new midshipmen, ‘for those amongst you who have been attracted to the service expecting to reap rich rewards, let me warn you that nothing is guaranteed. The past twelve months have returned only a meagre pittance in prize money to everyone aboard this ship. Furthermore, I do not anticipate my coming cruise to be any different.’

  With the company around the table shuffling uncomfortably in their seats, Mr Parry posed a question to the surgeon in an attempt to moderate the tension.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to share a little of your last voyage with us, Doctor. The West Indies is a hornet’s nest of action, is it not? What were your expectations of the Royal Navy when you first applied to join a ship and were those expectations met?’

  Pushing his plate away from the edge of the table, the surgeon placed his napkin alongside it. ‘That was the first time I had travelled abroad, in fact it was the first time I had been on the sea in anything larger than a rowing boat. I admit, the experience delivered something of a shocking revelation to me. The sick berth in a man-of-war, situated below the waterline, is a far cry from the light and airy wards of the London Borough Hospitals. And, although we sailed in tropical waters, I saw very little of the islands we circumnavigated.

  ‘However,’ he explained. ‘It was an opportunity I would not have missed for in that time I became more intimately familiar with the workings of the human body than during all my time spent in London. Of course, the ship was engaged against the enemy on several occasions and at times the fighting was intense, the smoke from the gunpowder blinding and the noise deafening, but nothing was as unnerving to me as the speed by which infectious diseases ran rampant on those tropical islands.’