by M. C. Muir
‘I was not aware of the precise details, but I presume this is connected with the dispatches I delivered to Sir Charles Cotton a few weeks ago.’
‘Indeed.’
‘The Spanish convoy from South America is expected to arrive off Cadiz within a week.’
Oliver was eager for more news. ‘And you will detain them?’
‘Those are my instructions.’
‘Oh, to be sailing with you,’ Oliver said wistfully. ‘However, that is not to be. But for the present, might I invite you to join me and my officers later for dinner. We would all relish some new company.’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
After almost two months at sea and because of the port’s closure, the paucity of fresh produce available in the town meant the ingredients cook had available to prepare the meal from, provided for a far less sumptuous table than the one Oliver had shared with his officers in Portsmouth Harbour. Despite that, the assembled company quickly relaxed, each man willing to share an anecdote from his life, although not necessarily from his service. The more unusual or unfortunate the situation, the more laughter echoed around the cabin’s bulwarks.
‘Captain Gore,’ Oliver said, turning to his guest. ‘Would you permit me to share something of your naval career with my young officers? They could not find a more admirable career captain to model their actions on than yourself.’
‘Rather gushing words.’ The lilt of Captain Gore’s Kilkenny accent was becoming more pronounced with every mouthful of wine.
‘I confess those words are not mine,’ Oliver admitted. ‘That most flattering approbation was written by Admiral Lord Nelson himself, in a letter published in the Naval Chronicle.’
The visitor laughed from behind his glass before draining it. ‘Then, who am I to dispute his Lordship’s observations?’
Oliver thanked him and continued. ‘Gentlemen, while Captain Gore is of a similar age to myself, he entered the service as a boy at the age of seven and was a midshipman from the age of nine. By seventeen he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant, and was stepped up to commander at the age of twenty-two years, taking command of a French caravel.’
‘A privateer – 16 guns,’ Gore added.
Oliver acknowledged and continued. ‘And being promoted to post captain, six months later that prize ship was commissioned to him under British colours as HMS Fleche. Does my memory serve me correctly?’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ the Captain replied, his Irish brogue unmistakable.
‘Having taken several valuable prizes during that command, Captain Gore was transferred to the Channel Fleet and served aboard Triton – 32 guns, and while in that ship captured not one or two prizes, but thirteen privateers and man-of-war brigs.’
Captain Quintrell had the wide-eyed attention of his younger officers. ‘Then the war was interrupted by the Peace of Amiens.’
‘Most inconvenient, to be sure,’ Gore quipped with a wink.
‘And when the war resumed you were commissioned to your current vessel, Medusa.’
The captain nodded.
Oliver continued. ‘A thirty-two gun frigate which, I believe, Lord Nelson hoisted his flag on in the Channel for a time. Then after being transferred to the Mediterranean, Captain Gore took command of the squadron off Toulon until the arrival of Admiral Lord Nelson. From there he was ordered to proceed with three other ships to act as advance guard off the Strait of Gibraltar.
‘Which bring us up to date.’ Oliver looked to his guest. ‘Would that be a fair summary, Captain?’
‘Indeed, it is.’
‘Then let us raise a glass to Captain Gore.’
The toast was echoed with great enthusiasm and a clatter of feet under the table.
‘Gentleman.’ Gore raised his hand to silence the applause. ‘If the deck beams allowed it, I would prefer to stand, not to address you but to relieve my aching back.’
The company was eager to hear what Medusa’s captain had to say.
‘Captain Quintrell, your welcome is most congenial. Being reminded of the part one has played in securing Britain position of supremacy on the seas, is reassuring, although somewhat embarrassing.’
He looked at the faces around the table. ‘What I choose to share with you here is for the benefit of the young officers who have yet to prove themselves in the King’s Navy. Allow me to be serious for a moment, when I say that life in the service is not always a successful or rewarding one. Many who serve never reach the post rank that Captain Quintrell and I have achieved, and there are many who die in the trying.
‘Yet, while I have benefitted through promotion and financial rewards, I should note that having Lord Cochrane for a godfather probably helped me along the way in the early days.’ His smile was genuine, when he directed his next comment to the younger members of the ship’s company. ‘But, I can assure you, Lord Cochrane was certainly not aboard my ship dandling me on his knee throughout the last ten years.’
The sailing master spluttered into his glass of port.
‘Captain Quintrell had been very generous is citing my successes, however, he has failed to mention the dismal results I achieved in the Channel while under Lord Nelson’s command. Added to that was the grounding of several of his Majesty’s ships, one which I placed on a rock, and another I lodged on a sand bank on the Strait.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘But more recently, I almost managed to start a war with Spain single-handed.’
‘Pray tell,’ Oliver begged.
‘It happened when I was chasing a French privateer. She was sailing very close to the Cadiz lighthouse and one of Medusa’s shots went high and landed in the town. It was fortunate the Spanish authorities accepted my explanation that it was an accident. As a result my men and I were graciously invited to attend a banquet and a bullfight in that fine city.’
The junior officers chuckled.
‘As a result of that incident, I have a very good relationship with the Dons at Cadiz. A fortunate outcome from an unfortunate incident which could easily have been misconstrued with catastrophic consequences.’
The Irishman obviously enjoyed talking and the officers were enthralled with his exploits.
‘But three years ago, aboard Triton, the eleventh gun abaft the mainmast deck burst. I was dining, as we are now, when I received word the gun was ready. Lieutenant Alford who was with me, opened the cabin door and his head was blown straight from his body. Although the gunner was virtually unscathed, his mate was killed, another man was blown into the quarter-gallery and 18 seamen and marines were badly injured, including myself.
‘So, gentlemen, if you notice me shuffling in my seat, I can assure you I am not infected with the French Pox, but I am suffering severe discomfort in my spine.
‘Life in the service is not all prize money and glory. But, in order to acquire one or both, you must be prepared to pay a price for your achievements. Continue to strive and learn, and you will succeed, I guarantee you.’
His address was met with a hearty round of approval.
The evening was a great success and everyone was buoyed by the visit from the naval captain whom several of the younger officers had never heard of prior to his arrival.
Oliver and Simon Parry had also savoured the visit. The light-hearted banter over dinner had broken some of the tensions simmering in Perpetual.
Much to everyone’s disappointment, Captain Gore had excused him relatively early to return to his ship and, with his departure, the meal came to a close.
‘Pray stay a moment, Mr Parry,’ Oliver begged, when the other officers had taken their leave.
Once alone, the captain lowered his voice and continued. ‘I learned a little more from the conversation I had with Captain Gore before dinner but I thought it politic not to share it. Word passes all too quickly and like plied rope, it can be twisted many times before it reaches the end of the ropewalk.
‘It appears Captain Barlow was planning to take Triumph to Cadiz. And word is out, yet again, that we are on the
brink of war. I know the suggestion of Spain entering the war in support of Napoleon has been made many times and until a declaration is made, it is only hearsay and speculation. But Captain Gore, who I hold in high regard, believes conflict is imminent – in a matter of weeks. As such, he felt it would be foolhardy for a 74 to be placed in a position of vulnerability. He therefore convinced Captain Barlow to remain on his current position – as advance guard for the Mediterranean Fleet.’
‘While he will sail for the Atlantic to detain any Spanish treasure ships returning to port,’ Simon Parry said.
Oliver raised one eyebrow. ‘Detain but not attack,’ he repeated. ‘I ask you, Simon, do you believe a Spanish captain will relinquish his treasure without a fight?’
Brickley’s announcement to the group of sailors gathered around the foremast had everyone’s attention.
‘Now I remember who he is. He’s a bleedin’ jailbird!’
‘Who is?’ Bungs asked.
‘I swore I’d seen him before,’ the sailor continued. ‘But I couldn’t for the life of me remember where. Now I know!’
‘Who? Where?’ Muffin asked.
‘ Damn your eyes! Spit it out!’ Bungs yelled.
‘Newgate Prison! Our hoity-toity surgeon, who feeds his patient’s innards to the fish, is nothing more than a common jailbird.’
Eyebrows raised.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure, I’m sure, I remember seeing him the day he was dragged in. Blabbering that he’d done nothing wrong. Arguing that he didn’t belong there. Asking to see the Governor. Demanding that a message be sent to this person or that.’
‘What was he thrown into Newgate for?’ Irons enquired.
‘How should I know? I’m just telling you what I saw. He was brought in early one morning along with two other cons. They didn’t look bothered. They were probably regulars. But the doctor was beside himself.’
‘So, what is the man, if he’s not a doctor? What was his crime?’
‘Maybe he’s done a murder,’ Smithers smirked.
‘Not dressed the way he was dressed.’ Brickley said. ‘He looked more like a forger. Or even a lawyer.’
‘What happened to him?’ Eku enquired.
‘Another toff arrived in the afternoon and the doctor was taken out.’
‘And?’
‘How should I know,’ Brickley said. ‘Never saw him again until the captain had us lined up on deck and the doctor examined us. I knew I’d seen him before and it’s been nagging at me ever since.’
‘And what of the other two men thrown in with him?’
‘They were nothing to do with him. They just happened to be locked up at the same time. They were a pair of exhumators,’
‘Exhumators?’ Eku asked.
‘Sack-’em-up men, lifters and grabs, grave robbers, whatever you want to call them. Them types are not popular even in jail and it weren’t long before they got their comeuppance.’
‘So what made you remember the doctor just now?’ Muffin asked.
The sailor shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was a whiff from the heads that wafted up my nose and reminded me of the smell of prison. You don’t forget that sort of thing easy, but it’s taken me a while to remember the face.’
‘What will you do about it? Eku asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you going to tell the captain?’
‘Don’t talk daft,’ Brickley replied. ‘The captain ain’t going to believe me. I’d probably get a flogging for telling tales. He’d say I was trying to drag the surgeon’s name in the gutter.’ He smirked. ‘Insolence – that’s what they call it in them Articles of his.’
‘Well, don’t be surprised if word gets about,’ Bungs warned. ‘These walls have got ears and someone’ll tell. You mark my words.’
Brickley shrugged it off. ‘Capt’n ain’t interested in foremast tittle-tattle. He should know by now, a bit of juicy gossip always goes down well with a double ration of grog.’
CHAPTER 12
The Cockpit
Standing by the taffrail away from flapping ears, Oliver spoke plainly with his first lieutenant.
‘Our ship’s surgeon is a nemesis to me.’ Oliver admitted. ‘Since he came aboard, I have lost a young midshipman.’
‘The unfortunate accident with the fishbone.’
Oliver peered at him with a frown.
‘Old Prendergast died from blood poisoning after the assistant surgeon pulled a rotten tooth from his jaw.’ Oliver shook his head. ‘How many men have teeth pulled at sea and suffer no more than an aching gum?’
‘Hundreds,’ Mr Parry replied.
‘Indeed. And I learned there was an argument over what to do with the cook’s mate who was unable to pass water. It seems, the surgeon was eager to cut him for a stone, which he insisted was in the man’s bladder. However, the seaman baulked at the sight of the lancet and said he preferred to put up with the pain. A couple of days later, I was told, the stone passed naturally and the excruciating pain the man had been suffering disappeared. I ask you to consider this, what would have been the fate of the man if the doctor had operated on him?’
‘I cannot say,’ the lieutenant replied.
‘Perhaps the men are also becoming a little wary. I noted this morning that apart from a few festering sores and a boil or two, there was little response to the sick bell.’
‘I suppose we should be thankful that the opposite does not apply,’ Simon Parry said.
Oliver knew his first lieutenant’s comment was valid. ‘But from what I have been told, the surgeon has some strange habits. Unlike most officers who spend their private moments writing letters or reading, Dr Whipple never leaves the cockpit and dedicates his spare time to cutting up specimens – rats, mice even the fat blood-filled leeches he brought with him. I am tempted to believe the rumours that he is some sort of vivisectionist.’
Mr Parry did not commit to an opinion on that subject. ‘Yet I must argue in his defence with regard to Hobbles, the gun captain. As he is stone-deaf, he never heard the chit-chat in the mess and presented himself to the surgeon, because of a pain in the side of his head. After examining him, Dr Whipple bathed his ear in a warm solution and managed to pull out enough wax to burn a candle for two hours. Hobbles, didn’t say much, but he appeared to be concentrating hard to hear sounds and voices he had not heard for a long time.’
‘Wait until the next time we have gun practice,’ Oliver replied cynically. ‘Then he will know if he is still completely deaf of not.’
Mr Parry continued. ‘One of the carpenter’s mates had an enormous boil on his back. He wouldn’t let anyone touch it, but eventually he let the doctor lance it. Longbottom said the yellow matter shot up to the overhead beams and when the doctor squeezed it, the boil frothed over with pus and blood. He said it resembled lava running down the sides of a volcano.’
‘A very vivid description,’ the captain scoffed.
‘The man is now back in the carpenter’s shop and is as good as new,’ Simon added. ‘And yesterday there was the topman who fell out of the rigging? The doctor did nothing for him – absolutely nothing, even although his mates pleaded with the surgeon to treat him. Bleed him. Purge him. Do anything. But Dr Whipple refused. He said that because the man was bleeding from his ears, his skull was broken and his brain drowning in blood. He said whatever he did would not help. He argued that if he put the man through more pain and he died, he would be accused of administering the wrong treatment. “Yet, if I don’t treat him and he dies, I will be accused on neglect.” Those were his words.’
‘“But if you treat him and he lives?” one of the midshipmen asked.’
‘“If he lives,” he surgeon answered, “it will be a miracle, and miracles are out of my hands. I will make this man comfortable as possible, but he will die before morning, I can assure you.” At eight bells of the morning watch, the topman passed from this earthly life.’
‘Enough! I am fully aware of these inciden
ces,’ Oliver replied bluntly. ‘You do not need to remind me.’
An hour later, Oliver ducked his head and entered the cockpit unannounced.
Seated at his tiny desk against the bulkhead, Dr Whipple was making an entry in one of his leather-bound journals. At the far side of the sick berth, the loblolly was leaning over a bucket scrubbing the doctor’s surgical instruments. Abel Longbottom was nowhere to be seen. On the table, in the centre of the cabin, a stained cotton sheet was draped over a corpse. The sweet and sickly odour of death mixed with the smell of preservative fluid hung in the air.
‘Leave us,’ the captain ordered, glancing at the boy.
Tommy dropped the brush into the water, rubbed his hands down his apron then hurried away.
‘I wish to see the body,’ Oliver said.
Striding to the operating table, the captain stood alongside it and waited for a few moments.
‘I do not have all day to waste, sir. I wish to see the deceased.’
Putting down his pen, Dr Whipple joined the captain and folded back the sheet to reveal the head and shoulders of one of Perpetual’s foremast Jacks.
The two men exchanged glances but not a word was spoken. The man’s identity did not come as a surprise to Oliver. He had been informed of the death and needed to arrange a time for the burial service. As far as he was concerned, the sooner such matters were attended to the better.
‘Why has this man not been sewn into his hammock?’ he demanded.
‘I was waiting for my assistant to return,’ the doctor replied.
Oliver was unconvinced and reached for the corner of the cloth. Pulling it back in a single sweep, he slid it from the corpse. Taking one step back he inhaled deeply.
Not only was the man stark naked, but his chest had been cut open from neck to belly then sewn back together loosely with twine. From his profile, it appeared some of the organs had been removed from the body cavities. It also appeared that the empty space has been filled with wood shavings, as fine feathers of curled wood were protruding through the line of stitches. Sawdust was also littering the deck beneath his feet.