by M. C. Muir
Other balls ricocheted off the cliff face and rolled down the scree gathering up an avalanche of rubble as they fell.
A direct hit from the largest French frigate dashed one of the fisherman’s huts to kindling. Small overturned boats on the beach also fell victim to the broadsides, but the muffled thuds from the gundecks barely carried to the sailors and marines working in the Windsor Gallery high above.
‘Fire at will,’ Oliver ordered.
A shot splashed down between the frigate and one of its boats. Another landed amidships, splitting the longboat cleanly into two halves, shooting its bow clear of the water along with bodies and lethal splinters.
The crews in the gallery cheered while Oliver checked the scene from the embrasure. Within minutes there was nothing left of the boat, save for a few floating bodies and oars.
‘Well done, men,’ he called.
Under a rain of lethal iron splashing dabs of white on the azure tones of the Mediterranean, two boats pulled desperately for the shore while the others turned and struggled back towards the ships’ sides. Even from a distance it was easy to see how desperate the soldiers were to climb aboard.
‘Re-load!’ the captain called. ‘As fast as you can. Fire!’
The horrendous noised reverberated along the tunnel walls.
‘You got him!’ Mr Tully yelled. ‘Landed in the starboard chains. She’ll lose her mast in a minute. Mr Tully was not wrong. The main on the large frigate teetered then, when the remaining lines could take the strain no longer, they snapped. The mast leaned slowly then fell tossing men, spars, lines and canvas into the sea.
A gaping hole in the other frigate’s side was sucking in seawater and rapidly drowning the ship. As the water took hold, the ship heeled gracefully spilling men from the yards. It went down in a froth of bubbling water. Soldiers, who had managed to climb aboard, had no alternative but to leap back into water where they were quickly dragged down by their wet uniforms and backpacks.
A few soldiers made it to one of the surviving boats without being hit by the lethal projectiles raining down on them. Once, in the relative safely of the boat, they had three options – pull for the fisherman’s beach to be taken prisoner in a plague-infested colony, pull for the frigates which were under bombardment from the sky, or head north and attempt to row to France.
As the firing continued, three shots landed almost simultaneously on the smallest frigate. Dropping with deadly force from a great height, the huge balls drove through the decks as easily as a sharpened quill through a piece of paper. Once they reached the hull, the ribs were rent apart spewing up a fountain of sea and quickly drowning the hold.
“Huzzah! Huzzah!’
‘Give them one more,’ Oliver demanded. ‘Fire!’
A well-aimed shot grazed the rudder of the only frigate still afloat. She was attempting to make a run to the north. It was evident to Captain Quintrell the French captain was not prepared to haul his colours but nor was he prepared to stand and fight any longer. He had no defence against an airborne attack. Running was his only option.
Clustered around the embrasure, Oliver’s men cheered. The euphoria was equal to any victory won at sea. The captain was delighted also. The British Navy had sunk two French ships and sent another running home to tell their tale to the Emperor. Apart from a few streaks of smoke smeared across the Perpetuals’ faces, his men had not sustained a single injury, not even a broken finger nail.
‘Well done, men. You have sent Napoleon a clear message – the Rock does not welcome French visitors. Now let us clear this gundeck and return to Perpetual. I am sure Mr Parry will be wondering what has become of us.’
‘We don’t have to haul the gun down the hill, do we?’ Muffin asked, dolefully.
‘No, it will remain here.’
Muffin sighed. ‘Thank the Lord for that.’
Sitting at the back of the tunnel in the darkness, Tommy Wainwright took his hands from his ears. ‘Is it over?’
‘Yes it’s over,’ Eku said. ‘Time to head back to the ship. Are you all right?’
Tommy nodded. ‘My head is thumping.’
‘Mine too,’ said Bungs. ‘I never heard so much noise.’
‘Time to go,’ Eku said, offering his hand to help Tommy to his feet.
‘I don’t feel good,’ Tommy whispered.
‘You’ll be fine,’ the Negro said. But when they emerged into the daylight, the whites of Tommy’s eyes told another story. They were the colour of old linen.
Although the hours had slipped by as easily as sand through a glass, it had been a long day and the men were hungry and weary. But they were pleased with their efforts. Hauling the heavy gun to the top of the rock had been a hard climb. Coming down without it was going to be much easier.
The sergeant of the Marine Corps was pleased too. Captain Quintrell had praised his men for their achievements. Following the captain from the tunnel, he formed his men into an orderly double file and once everyone was out of the gallery, they began the march down the mountainside.
Despite the smoke they had inhaled, the Perpetuals were in good voice chattering, joking and singing. It took harsh words from Mr Tully to silence their elated spirits. Hobbles said nothing but wore a broad grin on his face. His gun crew brought up the rear of the party.
‘So what’s up with you?’ Bungs asked Tommy, who was lagging behind. ‘Cat still got your tongue?’
Tommy didn’t answer.
‘It makes no sense to me,’ the cooper drawled. ‘Yesterday you begged Mr Parry to let you come along and serve as a powder monkey. Yet while we was in the tunnel, I never once saw you with so much as a quill in your hand.’
Tommy gazed around searching for the distant voice he could hear in his head. Suddenly his eyes glazed, rolled back and closed. His knees collapsed from under him and he keeled over. Within seconds, he was rolling down the hillside.
‘Fool?’ Mr Tully yelled. ‘Can’t he walk straight?’
The party came to a halt. The men moved to the edge to watch the loblolly’s tumble. Having been standing alongside him, Eku immediately shot down the hill after him. Skidding on his hands, feet and seat until he reached him. Fortunately, not far below them, the path doubled back stopping his fall.
Splayed across the track, Tommy’s face and arms were cut and blood was streaming from his nose. He opened his eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ Eku asked softly.
Tommy looked at him blankly.
Mr Tully snaked around the bend in the track. Captain Quintrell was close behind.
‘I need two men to carry him back to the ship,’ the captain called.
‘I will take him,’ Eku said.
‘Can you manage him alone?’
‘I’ve carried much heavier burdens than this,’ Eku said, picking up the youth and cradling him in his arms.’
Oliver accepted the offer. The West Indian was probably the strongest man in his crew.
‘When we arrive at the ship, take him directly to the sick berth. Tell the surgeon to ignore the cuts and bruises. Tell him the boy is ill.’
Eku looked into the captain’s eyes.
Oliver met his gaze and nodded.
Nothing more needed to be said.
‘Is it the fever?’ Bungs asked, after helping Eku deliver the boy down to the cockpit.
‘I fear so,’ Dr Whipple replied, bathing the blood from Tommy’s face. ‘Delirium is a symptom of this disease, and I should warn you that death is often a close companion.’
‘I want to stay with him and care for him,’ Bungs begged.
The surgeon hesitated. ‘What of your regular duties?’
‘Duties be damned! They can wait. Besides we ain’t at sea. I’ll tend to the lad for as long as it takes.’
‘And Mr Muffin?’
Bungs was shocked. ‘What of Muffin?’
‘Isn’t he one of your messmates also?’
‘Yes, but—?’
‘He’s in the cot over there. Mr Tully bro
ught him in just before you arrived. The lieutenant said it took his friend all his strength to climb aboard. He said it was a wonder he didn’t topple into the bay and drown.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Bungs said, apologetically. ‘Then I’ll mind them both and my mate will help me. Won’t you, Eku?’
The West Indian agreed.
‘And what of the danger to your own health?’
Bungs laughed. ‘An old tar like me? I’ve had a dose of everything there is to have. Nothing ain’t gunna kill me, ’cept a direct hit at close quarters. And the same goes for Ekundayo here. Ain’t that right?’
‘That’s true,’ the West Indian said.
Dr Whipple looked from the two men to the three other swinging cots in the sick berth. ‘Because there are others I must attend to and, because I am without the services of my loblolly, I accept your offer of help. If you care for young Tom and Mr Muffin, I will be most grateful. I shall mention your names to the captain.’
Over the next three days, men were kept busy replacing the caulking on the gun deck. The old rope they had teased was put to good use. As they worked, they inhaled deeply preferring the smell of boiling pitch in their nostrils to the smell of death drifting across the bay from the town.
For two dozen men who could swim, netting was slung around the ship’s sides which allowed them to scrape a layer of weed spouting from between the copper plates below the water level.
Although unable to provide any guarantee to his crew that their situation on the bay would change in a day, a week, or even a month, Captain Quintrell wanted to be ready to leave when his orders arrived and to feel confident he could make a safe and swift passage back to England.
During that time, Tommy drifted in and out of delirium and while his nose bleed caused by the fall did not recur, blood began oozing from Muffin’s nose and the corners of his eyes. The foul black vomit came the following day. Bungs dutifully bathed his patient, dressed him a clean shirt and gave him every possible care.
On the morning of the fourth day, Tommy Wainwright opened his eyes to the sound of whispered voices. The patient in the next cot was being taken out. His name had been recorded in the surgeon’s log as a victim of the contagious fever.
Tommy was unaware it was his messmate, the Muffinman, and he never had the opportunity to say goodbye.
It was a time of mixed feelings when Tommy was declared fit enough to leave the sick berth and return to eat with his friends. He received a round of huzzahs when he walked through the mess.
‘Welcome back, you young scallywag,’ Bungs said, ruffling Tommy’s mop of hair as he slid along the sea chests to his usual seat directly opposite the cooper.
Tommy smiled back from his perch next to Eku. Although he’d been told about Muffin’s death, it was confronting to see the empty place where the sailor usually sat with his head resting against the ship’s side as if he was asleep.
‘So what have you two been doing while I’ve been sick?’ Tommy asked.
Bungs and Eku looked at each other across the table.
‘Just minding us own business,’ Bungs said, winking at the Negro. ‘Ain’t that right?’
‘Too right,’ Eku answered. ‘Just minding us own business.’
CHAPTER 19
Admiralty Orders
December 1804
‘Touching his breast pocket, as he stepped aboard, Captain Quintrell reassured himself the orders he had received from the Admiralty via the Acting Commander of the Garrison were safe. All that remained was to go below and open them. A half-smile curled on the corner of his lips – one of satisfaction rather than joy at the prospect of receiving news he was to be returning home.
Once within the confines of his cabin, he broke the wax seal and removed the sheets of paper from the envelope and read. Then, he frowned. These were not the orders he had expected. After reading his instructions twice over, he laid the dispatch on his desk, mulled over the content for a time, then called for his first lieutenant.
‘Come in, Simon, please sit.’
Simon Parry was also eager for news. ‘You have your orders, Captain?’
The tone of Oliver’s reply fell somewhere between an announcement and a guarded apology. ‘You will be pleased to learn that our duty here has come to an end. We are at liberty to proceed to sea.’
‘The Lord be praised,’ Simon said. ‘The men will be delighted when they learn of it.’
Oliver nodded tentatively, wondering if the crew’s initial euphoria at hearing the full extent of the news would be short lived.
‘It is officially over,’ Oliver announced. ‘The epidemic has come to an end. The garrison has recorded no deaths in the past few days and not a single soldier has fallen sick in the last week. The same applies in the town’. He leaned back and stretched. ‘It’s like a curse has been lifted and the change is remarkable. You can see the relief on the soldiers’ faces. You can sense it on the parade ground. It’s like the atmosphere on the gundeck after the smoke has cleared and every man gets on with his business as if nothing had ever happened.’
‘That is indeed good to hear.’
‘The garrison also received word from Lord Nelson that his own surgeon from Victory is to be transferred to Gibraltar, and an eminent physician from London is heading this way.’
‘A little late perhaps, would you not agree?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘On the nineteenth of this month General Fox will arrive and take up his post as Lieutenant-Governor of the colony and Commander of the Garrison. Plus more troops will be arriving to replace those who died of the fever.’
‘Is it known how many died?’
‘Between October and November, the garrison lost over 1000 men and the town lost half its population – almost 5000 souls. One in every two people fell victim to the contagion.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Let us pray it never returns.’
Oliver echoed his sentiment.
‘The Perpetuals should be grateful they were confined to the ship,’ Simon said. ‘That alone must have saved some lives.’
Oliver pondered over his lieutenant’s statement. ‘It’s hard to know. In total Dr Whipple recorded only five deaths on the ship due to fever, but I think that was nothing to do with where the men went, or what they did, or the quarantine regulations, or the services he provided in the sick berth. Personally, I believe it was pure luck.’
Simon Parry was curious.
‘Consider Captain Gore’s men. They never once stepped ashore in Gibraltar or in Cadiz, but news, just arrived from England, states that when Medusa arrived in Plymouth, he had fifty sailors confined to the sick berth. I wonder how many sailors were buried on the Bay of Biscay.’ Oliver paused. ‘It appears, no amount of fresh sea air was able to prevent the pestilence from spreading.
‘However, that is now a thing of the past and we must concentrate on the future. With ships at liberty to enter Gibraltar Bay, trade will resume, the garrison will re-group under a new commander and before long the colony will be flourishing again.
‘As to my commission,’ he said, tapping his finger on the dispatch. ‘I have my orders. Do you have all the men aboard?’
‘Yes, sir. All accounted for at this morning’s muster.’
‘Including the doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what of the shipwrights I was promised from the naval dockyard? I will not sail without a carpenter.’
‘They are due to arrive first thing in the morning.’
‘Good. I have no desire to linger in this place any longer than is necessary. Are you satisfied all has been made ready to sail?’
‘Aye, Captain. Am I permitted to notify the men?’
‘You are—’
‘Excellent.’ A satisfied smile spread across Simon’s face. ‘Spirits have been low, but this news will be like a double ration to the men.’
But Oliver was not through. Standing up, he gazed into the empty fireplace. ‘December in England can be cold,’
he mused.
‘But a warm hearth is always a welcome sight,’ Simon added. Then he paused, inclining his head. ‘Is there a problem, Oliver?’
‘Do we have ample water?’
‘We could fill some barrels on the Portuguese coast and if we are fortunate to meet rain on the Bay of Biscay, there will be sufficient for us to reach Portsmouth without the need for rationing.’
Oliver turned and faced his lieutenant. ‘We are not going home, Simon. The Admiralty has other plans.’
The lieutenant raised his eyebrows.
‘We head into the Atlantic. Our first port of call will be the Portuguese Azores.’
‘Not Madeira?’
A shudder ran down Oliver’s spine, although his face showed no indication of the thoughts flashing through his mind. ‘No, Simon, not Madeira. In the Azores we shall take on food and water for a six-month voyage.’
The lieutenant waited.
‘Our destination is the Southern Ocean – the newly established settlement of Hobarton in Van Diemen’s Land, the small island to the south of New South Wales.’
‘That will not please the men. They have been praying for the day we return to England. A voyage such as this will take four months to reach our destination and the same amount of time, if not more, to return.’
‘I do not write the orders, Simon, I merely follow them.’
‘But, if I might be so bold as to state the obvious, we have on board a substantial amount of Spanish treasure.’
‘I am fully aware of that.’
‘Are you also aware the men are not happy about it. They say it is cursed.’
‘Sailors are a suspicious lot,’ Oliver observed.
‘But to convey it half-way across the world and back would seem foolish in the extreme.’
‘Yet it is that very commodity which determines our destination. My orders state,’ he said, glancing at the letter on the desk, ‘that I must: