by M. C. Muir
‘If I might pose a question?’
The captain inclined his head.
Simon chose his words carefully. ‘Would it be preferable that we headed for Madeira?’
For a second, a pained expression flashed across the captain’s face.
Mr Parry failed to notice and continued. ‘The men are familiar with that port, and it offers plenty of distractions. Plus, a south-westerly bearing from here would reduce our distance by two hundred sea miles, so the sailing master informs me.’
‘Jack Mundy is a fine navigator, but he does not know what is in my mind. I have set my course, and I do not intend to change it.’ Oliver’s tone moderated as he looked directly at his first officer. ‘I am certain when you had your own command, you were an excellent captain. And it is a travesty of justice that has destined you to serve as my subordinate. I appreciate your concern and value your opinion, Simon, but only I can resolve the concerns that trouble me.’ He paused. ‘You have been diplomatic in not reminding me of my personal reason for not wanting to visit Madeira.’
‘I had no intention of doing that, sir.’
‘Nevertheless, I am sure my relationship with a certain lady on that island and the circumstances surrounding her unfortunate death have been bandied around the mess and the wardroom.’
Simon Parry was adamant. ‘I can assure you that is not the case.’
‘Whatever,’ Oliver replied, returning to the question in hand. ‘Steering clear of Madeira for personal reasons is not why we are heading to the Western Islands. Apart from the need to take on provisions, the Portuguese islands of the Azores are many sea miles from the normal routes for shipping serving European ports. They are more frequently visited by ships sailing from Britain to the Cape of Good Hope, and by Nantucket whalers, West African slavers and Company ships heading east or west. If, by chance, word has been passed to Spain that we are transporting some of their plundered treasure and heading for the Southern Ocean, I guarantee the Spanish Navy would not search for us in the Azores. Madeira would be a much more likely place to expect to find us. Furthermore, the Azores is less likely to attract French ships of war.’
Simon Parry agreed. ‘If it is our misfortune to encounter any enemy ships, you have a fine frigate, a loyal crew and a well-supplied magazine.’
‘French frigates are built to make more speed than our ships, and with Perpetual’s hull in dire need of attention, we would be hard pressed to outrun them.’
Stretching his arms above his head, Oliver raked the single remaining finger on his right hand through his hair, and then adjusted the position of his queue. ‘I have pondered over these aggravations long enough, and no amount of speculation will change the situation that exists. If I am stuck with the pirated treasure, I must make every effort not to lose it.’
While the brief conversation with his first officer had changed nothing, it had released the knot on the conundrums Oliver had been puzzling over for days.
‘I think a modicum of fresh air is required. I shall join you on deck presently. Perhaps together we can raise some more wind.’
‘Sail astern!’
The captain opened his telescope for the umpteenth time and put it to his eye. The sail reported two hours earlier had also been seen two hours prior to that. The lookout claimed it was a fully rigged ship, but with little more than its royals visible from the deck, the captain had not been convinced.
‘What do you make of it, Mr Parry?’ he asked.
‘Can’t rightly say, sir,’ the lieutenant replied.
‘A whaler, an Indiaman, a slave ship, a man-o’-war? What is it?’ He shook his head. ‘With no colours flying, it’s impossible to tell friend from foe.’
‘Perhaps it is a pirate or privateer,’ the sailing master said. ‘Perhaps its captain knows what we are carrying. Do you think she is following us by chance or chasing us, Captain?’
‘I think many things, Mr Mundy, but I cannot predict the unpredictable. At best, I can only make sure I am well prepared. For the present, however, I suggest you pay attention to your duties and forget conjecture.’ He paused. ‘According to my calculations, we are only a few hours’ sailing from the island of Saint Mary, the most southerly of the Western Isles. Let us put up every square inch of cloth we have,’ he ordered. ‘Let us raise the Azores before this stranger closes on us. If he wishes to speak with me, he is welcome to deliver his calling card when we are anchored in the harbour at Ponta Delgada.’
‘Do you want the stuns’ls out, Captain?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘No, it takes too much time and we cannot rely on the wind holding. We cannot outrun this shadow, while dragging a stone anchor, therefore, let us continue to make what speed we can with the canvas we are flying. Keep her close to the wind, helmsman. Don’t let her fall off.’
‘It’s like a ghost ship,’ the sailing master said. ‘It comes and goes like an illusion. One moment it’s there and, the next, it’s dropped below the horizon.’
Oliver Quintrell wondered if that was happening by accident, due to the fickle breeze, or if the following ship was deliberately spilling wind from its sails in order to reduce speed? The Barbary corsairs of the Mediterranean were known to follow a ship for days to ascertain if it was vulnerable before attacking it. While it was certainly not a ghost ship, it was an irritation. ‘Let me know any change in its bearing immediately.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The captain was not happy and the concern was evident in his face.
‘He’ll be making for the Western Isles, like us,’ the sailing master said, fully confident of his opinion. ‘According to my reckoning, we’ll be in Ponta Delgada in a day’s time.
The captain was less enthusiastic. ‘There is no immediate urgency for us to arrive. I have an uneasy feeling about that ship.’
Mr Mundy was oblivious to the captain’s concern. ‘It just happens to be heading in the same direction as us. There’s no harm in that,’ he insisted.
‘I hope you are right, however, I have decided to extend its captain the courtesy of allowing him to enter the port before us.’
‘But what of the victuals? We are running very low.’
‘I am well aware of that, Mr Mundy, and a delay of a few more hours or days will make little difference. We are currently dragging a ton of weight on our hull, and until we rid ourselves of it, we will run from our enemies with the speed of a convict in a pair of leg irons. The needs of the ship must be attended to before the needs of men’s bellies. I had planned to visit Ponta Delgada first and attend to the ship second, however, I have reconsidered. We will have no opportunity to clean the hull while anchored in the harbour.’
He explained his plans. ‘I have decided to make for Santa Maria, the smaller island that is ahead of us. We will search out a sheltered cove to careen the ship and do whatever work is necessary to improve its speed on the water. While we are there, it will be an ideal opportunity to take on wood and water. After that, we sail for Ponta Delgada. Hopefully, by that time, the dog sniffing at our heels will have lost interest or satisfied himself that we have either sailed for England or headed out into the Atlantic.’
‘With respect, sir,’ the sailing master began, ‘none of the anchorages on this island offer shelter and ships often have to put to sea at a short notice, especially at this time of the year.’
‘All the more reason to find an isolated inlet sheltered from the prevailing winds.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Mr Mundy. My mind is made up. While the barrels are empty and the provisions almost exhausted, the ship’s burthen is considerably less than at any other time. With an empty hull, it will be easier to refloat the ship when the job is completed. I appreciate your observations, but I have no intention of sinking Perpetual on a beach of soft sand and being unable to haul her off. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Aye, Capt’n. I’ll have a look on the charts.’
‘What I need may not be on the charts.’
‘I�
�ll have a look on the charts, anyway.’
‘As you wish.’
‘So when we find this beach, we run the frigate up on the beach?’ the sailing master re-iterated.
‘Isn’t that what I just said? I should not have to repeat myself. As to the wood and water, those commodities can be collected and brought on board once we are afloat. There will be much to do. ’
‘That could take a while.’
‘Did I not say three to four days? When all the jobs have been completed, then we head for the main port and its victualling store. Is that understood?’
‘Aye, Captain. No problem.’
No Problem. Prophetic words indeed. Already the captain anticipated several problems.
First, the problem of locating a suitable beach. That was imperative. Next, there was the challenge of sailing the ship in safely, allowing the hull to carry far enough up the beach on the flow of the tide, but not too far. Then there was the question of the carpenters. He was dependant on a team of artisans who were all new to him. He must rely on them to careen the vessel using blocks and tackles, and to ensure it is well supported by struts and lines, so when it is leaned to one side it will not topple onto its beam ends. He was equally dependant on the bosun and riggers to further secure the hull with cables stretched out along the beach, fastened to anchors in the sand or to rocks or large trees. Finally, he would be dependent on Providence to forestall any storms or high seas for the period the ship was on the beach. It would be catastrophic if the frigate was carried further up the beach and left stranded. More importantly, when the time came to haul the ship back onto the water, he would need to call on every ounce of strength the boat crews could muster to pull the vessel from the sand, and pray for an obliging wind to back the sails to help carry Perpetual into deep water.
If only this work could have been done while they were biding their time in Gibraltar Bay, but that had not been the case. No problem. The sailing master’s words echoed in Oliver Quintrell’s brain. He hoped and prayed those words would prove to be true.
Chapter 5
Santa Maria
‘Land ho!’
The call came from the forward masthead. All eyes scanned the sea ahead.
‘Land, Captain,’ the sailing master confirmed. ‘The Western Islands. Two points off the larboard bow.’
Having stepped on deck only five minutes earlier, Oliver excused himself from his conversation with the doctor and strode across to the lee side of the quarterdeck.
With his hip leaned against the rail, Mr Mundy fixed his glass on the far horizon.
‘That will be St Mary’s. The most southerly island of the group,’ he announced.
‘Santa Maria or the Yellow Island, as the Portuguese say,’ the captain commented.
‘Aye, that’s the one,’ Jack Mundy acknowledged. ‘Not much there for either man or beast, I hear.’ He arched his back, exhaled heavily, then collapsed his telescope rather vigorously.
The captain frowned and took out his pocket watch. ‘What of the sail to the south-east?’
‘Lookout has reported it comes and goes and it appears to be following us to the islands.’
Oliver Quintrell didn’t like the connotations of following us, but he concentrated his attention on the grey undulations emerging from the sea in the north-west. Glancing west, he shaded his eyes and considered the height of the sun as it was slowly descending from the heavens.
‘How far to the island would you say?’ he asked, looking at his watch.
‘About eight or ten miles.’
‘And two hours to sunset?’
The sailing master glanced at the horizon and nodded. ‘From memory, it’s a rugged coast with few people living there, so we’ll have little hope of seeing any lights if we pass in the night. Best to steer well clear of it, if you ask me. In fact, I would suggest adding some sail so we can clear it before it’s too dark. Do you want the stuns’ls out, Captain?’
‘No,’ Oliver replied bluntly, before turning to his first officer. ‘Reduce sail, Mr Parry. Topsails only. Inform the lookout to report on the sail in our wake. I want to know what it is and where it is heading.’
Mr Mundy shrugged his shoulders, pulled open his telescope again and directed it towards the island.
It was obvious to Oliver that his sailing master did not always agree with his orders, and on this occasion, the seasoned seaman could see no sense in slowing the frigate when it was making a respectable four knots―a good speed considering the drag on its hull. In Oliver’s eyes, Jack Mundy was a first-class navigator and was entitled to his opinions but, at times, he came perilously close to impertinence by pressing his views in a rather pointed fashion.
With the captain’s orders conveyed along the ship, the hands eased the sheets and hauled away on clew-lines and bunt-lines, hauling the courses, topgallants and royals up to their yards. Balancing over the yardarms, the topmen gathered the huge squares canvas into loosely folded pleats before securing them to the yards with hempen gaskets. On deck, the reduction in sail was soon evident. The next time the log was heaved the speed registered two knots.
Over the next hour with the frigate approaching the easternmost point of the island of Santa Maria, the ship that had been running on the same course became fully visible and closed on them. With square sails crowded on all three masts, it was definitely a fully-rigged ship.
‘Still no colours,’ the lookout called.
‘What do you think she is, sir?’ Mr Mundy asked.
The captain studied the blurred image, but did not offer an opinion.
‘She’ll be a Portuguese trader bound for South America or an Indiaman returning home via the Cape. She’ll break her passage at Ponta Delgada, like us, to pick up some cargo―wine or cattle perhaps.’
Again, Oliver did not respond to the sailing master’s assessment. Now was not the time for guesses, beside which he had his own thoughts on the matter.
‘What is your course, helmsman?’
‘North-west, Capt’n.’
‘North, if you please.’
‘North it is,’ the helmsman echoed, easing the wheel and waiting for the rudder to respond. Mr Parry’s eyes concentrated on the set of the sails.
‘We are heading for São Miguel, the main island, aren’t we?’ Mr Mundy enquired.
The captain turned to him. ‘At the moment, we are heading into the night, which will be upon us in about half an hour. But before we dissolve into the blackness, I wish to convince that ship off our stern we are on course for Ponta Delgada. Then, with the assistance of night clouds and a late rising moon, all lights will be doused and we will bear west.’
‘But we must make port on the main island to take on supplies and water. The leaguers and barrels are near empty.’
Oliver was very conscious of his ship’s needs―the purser, the cooper and the sailing master made sure he could not forget. It was his intention to make port there―but not immediately.
As the day ended, a kaleidoscope of coloured clouds hung over the western horizon providing a spectacular aura of burnt orange and gold, but Oliver Quintrell’s attention was on the hazy grey outline slightly west of north. It was the Portuguese island Santa Maria―the smallest and most southerly of the Azores group measuring a mere ten miles long from west to east by five miles in width.
Having made his decision, Captain Quintrell returned to the quarterdeck. ‘If my assumption is correct, the ship following us will presume we are making for São Miguel. Hopefully, by daylight, we will have rid ourselves of him.’
As predicted, there was no moon and with the lights doused, including the lantern in the main cabin, Perpetual was quickly cloaked in darkness. Although he scanned the following sea at regular intervals, Oliver could detect no tell-tale pin-pricks of lights in the blackness. Word from the lookout confirmed that the final sighting of the unidentified sail had it maintaining a northerly heading.
Standing at the rail, swaying with the ship, he listened to the familiar
sounds―the creak of the mizzen boom, the tap of a clay pipe as a sailor emptied its bowl, the flap of the flag to which he gave his allegiance and the occasional hiss from the frenetic wings of a flying fish. He watched the wavering line of wake trailing its aqua bloom on the sea and the black silhouettes of seabirds swooping down over it. When the sailor sucked on his pipe, the tobacco glowed red and, when the man exhaled, a stream of grey smoke trailed from the side of his mouth like the tail of pennant floating on the wind.
At midnight, the frigate changed from its northerly course and headed west.
According to the charts, Santa Maria’s north coast was rugged with soaring cliffs and headlands with small coves and inlets cut between them. Being a hazardous lee shore, it could only be approached safely in daylight. Because of this, the captain opted to sail well clear of the island’s western end then, with plenty of sea room around them, drop anchor for the night. At first light, they would weigh and head back to search for a suitable beach to run the ship up on.
Though nothing had been said to prompt his thinking, Oliver decided the men deserved a day of relaxation and despite rations being very low, considered that one more day’s delay would make little difference. Christmas had come and gone on the previous Tuesday without service or celebration, and the coming Tuesday would be the first day of 1805. He knew that, once work began on the hull, there would be no respite for several days and, when that job was completed, they would have other duties to occupy them when they reached the port. He had already resolved to spend as little time as necessary in Ponta Delgada before heading for the coast of Brazil, so this was the last opportunity they would have.
To have a full day of leisure, free of all regular chores was usually a treat for the men but some soon became bored. They’d had a bellyful of deck-board leisure after three months rocking on Gibraltar Bay. What they clamoured for were taverns, women and traders hawking cheap trinkets they could barter for. The extra double tot of rum they received was soon swallowed and the effects did little to appease them.