The Unfortunate Isles (Under Admiralty Orders - The Oliver Quintrell Series Book 4)

by M. C. Muir

  Waking with clear heads the following morning, the crew was eager to make sail but a strong northerly had blown up during the night, threatening to dash the frigate on the rocks if they went anywhere near the coast. This meant wasting another day while waiting for the wind to change.

  ‘It’s only fifty miles to Ponta Delgada,’ the sailing master reminded. ‘We could have made it there and back in the time we’re losing sitting here.’

  ‘I have no intention of dragging a ton of barnacles any further than necessary,’ Oliver growled.

  ‘There are more facilities on the main island,’ Mr Mundy insisted. ‘It would be safer to do the work there.’

  ‘Mr Mundy, If and when I require an opinion, I shall ask for one.’ He turned away from his sailing master and returned to the helm where Mr Parry was talking with the quartermaster.

  ‘Kindly ensure the men remain alert, Simon. I want no sudden surprises. Hopefully in the morning, the wind will have dropped enough for us to go about our search.’

  The work the captain was contemplating was to be no easy task, but he had full confidence in his men. Two years earlier, he had careened Elusive within the volcanic island in the Southern Ocean, and as his present crew included many sailors who had served with him then, he was confident they were capable of performing the same task without damage being inflicted on the ship.

  Throughout the night, the broad swell, whose troughs corrugated the Atlantic Ocean, rocked the seamen in their hammocks. Cocooned in canvas, each sleeping seaman swayed rhythmically from side to side without making contact with his neighbour. With one watch on deck while the other slept, each man’s allocation of eighteen inches was extended to a comfortable thirty-six inches, allowing space for air to circulate between the rows. Despite this, the smells and sounds remained the same no matter how many men slung their hammocks above the tables in the mess.

  At first light, the anchor was weighed and a course set to bring Perpetual to the western end of Santa Maria Island. The ship then headed east, following the coastline in search of a suitable bay.

  Because its western end was arid and wore the sallow colour of a sickly child, Santa Maria had been called the Yellow Island. The other eight islands in the group, however, were renowned for their fertile soils which supported verdant forests and farms and produced all manner of fruits and vegetables, both tropical and Mediterranean. Because the Azores had been raised by volcanoes from the seabed, all the islands, apart from Santa Maria, lived and breathed, exhaling sulphurous fumes and occasionally spewing lava from their peaks. The island of Santa Maria was old and dead.

  Over the next two hours, several coves and inlets were sighted from the masthead and sail was further reduced to allow the captain and sailing master to consider each location from the deck. In section of the coast, where perpendicular cliffs rose to a considerable height and the sea creamed constantly around their crumbling bases, it was agreed even taking one of the ship’s boats in would be dangerous. Of the inlets they sailed by, each in turn was considered before being discounted for various reasons―swirling currents, the surging waters funnelling fast though its entrance, the position of the inlet facing the prevailing winds or because of partly submerged boulders littering the entrance. For a few, the sole reason the location was discounted was because it gave Captain Quintrell an uneasy feeling.

  A little before ten o’clock, a potential cove was sighted. After heaving to, the anchor splashed into the sea opposite the entrance. All eyes were focused on the beach. Facing north-east and almost hidden between the broad extended arms of two towering headlands, a strip of flat sand glistened white in the sunlight. The tide, on the make, was breaking on the rocks at the base of the cliffs, but little more than gentle wavelets washed the shore. With a soft breeze and a pleasantly warm day of sixty-five degrees, most of the sailors dispensed with their shirts and shoes. Spirits were high. The air was filled with anticipation. It was perfect.

  ‘My boat, if you please, Mr Parry,’ the captain called. ‘I will go ashore. Have my boat crew ready and a dozen men besides, including some marines. While I am away, have the ship made ready to be sailed in.’

  The sailing master was about to offer his opinion, but thought better of it and turned aside.

  ‘Clear away the captain’s boat,’ Mr Parry ordered.

  ‘Mr Mundy, I would like you to accompany me.’

  Surprised, the sailing master raised his eyebrows, ‘Indeed, Captain. I’m ready.’

  With the captain sitting beside the coxswain in the stern sheets and the sailing master perched in the bow, nothing was said during the time it took the boat to swim across the stretch of ruffled sea before sliding onto the translucent water of the cove. The creak of the rowlocks and drip of water from the rising oars was the only sound until the bow crunched onto the sand. Mr Mundy was the first to jump ashore, followed by the sailors who heaved the boat a little further up the sand. Only then did the red-coated marines jump out followed by the captain.

  How different the conditions were here, Oliver thought, to those his crew had been confronted with only two years earlier aboard His Majesty’s frigate Elusive. In the freezing waters of the Antarctic at latitude 60°S, the inland sea they had entered had been surrounded by jagged snow-covered peaks covered with blue and white glaciers hanging from their summits. It was an eerie place where the icy wind blew daggers of sleet that sliced their cheeks, and where the water beneath the ship’s keel was capable of freezing to solid ice or bubbling like a boiling caldron only a few yards away. And that was summer!

  How idyllic the winter conditions in the Azores were. The sky was a continuous canvas of cerulean blue. The translucent sea in the bays was home to dolphins, grouper and numerous other fish and, further out on the fertile waters, were migrating whales. They attracted fleets of ships from Europe and North America anxious to fill their hulls with barrels of valuable oil before returning home. From the cliffs rising almost perpendicular from the sea, terns and other seabirds nested undisturbed on this little-visited stretch of coast. It is little wonder the French named the Azores, Les Ȋsles Fortunées along with the Canary Islands and Madeira.

  After only a short time reconnoitring the beach and testing the firmness of the sand, Captain Quintrell returned to Perpetual. His main concern was to ensure all the empty barrels in the hold were stowed properly and the guns lashed tightly. He could not afford to have any heavy objects running loose when the ship was careened. He pondered on the fate of the Royal George a 100-gun ship of the line. Some years ago, the captain of the first rate had ordered the guns to be trundled across the deck in order to heel the vessel so repairs to the hull could be undertaken in Spithead. But, with the extra weight on the starboard side, the ship leaned too far and rolled over crushing or drowning at least eight hundred people. He would not make that mistake, nor would he allow the crew aboard once the frigate was on the sand. Only a few exceptions would be made.

  Once satisfied all necessary eventualities had been considered and precautions taken, Oliver returned to the deck and, when the tide was on the make and almost at the full, he asked Mr Parry to sail her in.

  Pacing the deck and anxiously looking over the side to check the depth of water beneath the hull, the first officer headed the ship into the cove. Spilling the wind from the foretopsail, a chain’s length before the shore-line the frigate swam gracefully onto the beach, digging its keel into the sand and instantly coming to a stop.

  Within minutes, a swarm of sailors climbed from the deck on rope ladders or slid down the lines and cables that were quickly run out on all quarters. These were attached to anchors that were half-buried in the sand. Although Perpetual’s slightly bulbous hull helped it to remain near upright, the carpenter made sure a line of props was placed on the larboard side to prevent it from toppling. With the preparations completed, the men watched and waited for the tide to turn and ebb away leaving the British frigate stranded on the sand in a pool of water.

  Satisfied the hull w
ould not move until it was righted and returned to the sea, the captain commended the men. Now there was work to be done. With the regular watches stood down, the sailors were split into groups and allocated to various tasks. As cleaning the hull was the most pressing and laborious job, the largest working party was allocated to it. The ship’s carpenter, Mr Crosby, and his mates were given charge of that responsibility.

  Supplied with hammers, chisels, buckets, brooms and ladders, their job was to brush, knock or scrape the barnacles from the ship’s bottom. While the job was tedious and laborious, some care had to be taken to make sure the copper sheathing was not damaged. The protective layer of metal, intended to prevent worms chewing through the hull, had failed to prevent barnacles and other molluscs sucking onto it. Given the right conditions, the creatures reproduced in the thousands adding new layers on top of the old casings. The resulting layer was rock-hard and often razor sharp. The slime and weed was far easier to remove.

  While this arduous work went on non-stop, a party of twenty strong young sailors headed off to cut firewood. The woodcutters left the beach in high spirits armed with axes, saws and rope baskets. They were charged with cutting seasoned wood suitable for the galley fire but because Santa Maria was arid in parts, they faced a long walk to find a suitable source of timber. In anticipation of an overnight camp, they carried water and a small ration of tea and ship’s biscuits in their knapsacks.

  Another group of a similar number headed from the bay. Some carried small casks on their shoulders, others rolled larger barrels along the ground. The captain said he would be satisfied if they could collect enough fresh water to tide the ship’s company over for two or three days. This would avoid the necessity for strict rationing. Sufficient water to supply the ship for their voyage to South America would be collected at Ponta Delgada.

  A small working party armed with palms and needles, led by the sail maker, selected a flat area at the edge of the beach above the high-tide mark to make and erect a large tent. Dragging several old sails and carrying spare spars across the sand, the men set about building a shelter in case of rain. It would serve as a mess for both sleeping and eating under if the weather turned bad. A separate tent would be rigged for the captain and his officers. Adjacent to that, cook set up a galley to prepare the meals. He was not permitted to light a fire in Perpetual while the deck was on an angle.

  Finally, two pairs of topmen were ordered to scramble up the headlands on either side of the bay, where they would remain as lookouts. Four men, not allocated other tasks, were handed shovels and told to dig a long open ditch for the men to use as a privy.

  ‘Mr Tully,’ the captain called, turning to his second lieutenant. ‘I have a job for you.’

  ‘Aye, Capt’n.’

  ‘I want you to go over the headland to the east and investigate the next few bays and inlets. I need to know if there is any activity on this coast, such as a fishing village.’

  ‘Shall I take some men with me?’

  ‘No, I need everyman here to complete these jobs as quickly as possible.’

  ‘But I can’t speak the language, Captain, and if I find anyone, I’ll not be able to learn anything from them.’

  Oliver thought for a moment. ‘Ekundayo would be a good choice, but I can’t spare him. His brawn is more useful here. Find the boy Charlie and take him along. Mr Crosby tells me the lad speaks Spanish like a native, so he should be capable of making himself understood to the Portuguese, if the need arises.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’ Ben Tully knuckled his forehead and turned on his heel.

  ‘Take Tommy Wainwright out of the cockpit,’ the captain added. ‘The surgeon has enough hands assisting him. The fewer people aboard the ship while it is careened the better.’

  The second lieutenant nodded and headed off to form his own small party.

  After racing to the end of the short beach, the two lads dived headlong into the soft sand, sat up, looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then, after dusting themselves down, they got up, waited for the lieutenant to catch up to them then hared off again.

  Surprisingly, though six years separated them in age there was little difference in their stature. Charles, only ten years old, was tall for his age. He had grown up in Gibraltar under a Mediterranean sun fed on a diet of exotic fruits, goat’s milk and fish, chicken and fresh vegetables. Tommy Wainwright, at sixteen was still hoping to reach five feet tall. His lack of size could be blamed on working underground from the age of nine, inhaling fine coal dust into his lungs and never seeing the light of day through the long months of an English winter. His staple diet had included bread spread with mucky fat―salted pig or beef dripping. He had never seen an orange until he went to sea.

  On the island of Santa Maria, the pair had not a care in the world. With boundless energy, they sped up the side of the dunes and rolled down the other side showering their hair and clothes in soft sand.

  ‘Hey,’ Mr Tully warned, ‘you’ll wear yourselves out before we even get started.’ But the boys didn’t hear or didn’t want to hear. They laughed and joked together as if they had been mates for years. For them, being off the ship and heading over the hills and along the coast was a big adventure.

  By two in the afternoon, the work on the hull was well underway, but progress was slower than expected. It was hard work knocking or scraping the shells from the hull, especially working with arms reaching above their heads for long periods. But the captain would not permit cradles to be slung from the side for fear it could add too much weight to the side and lean the hull further over. The sand also proved hazardous to work on with pieces of broken shell cutting into the bare feet of the men without shoes. Bleeding knuckles was another complaint when a chisel or hammer slipped on the razor sharp surface. The surgeon attended to the deep cuts while Mrs Crosby and Connie remained in the sick berth tearing up strips of linen for bandages.

  Shortly before dark, a large bonfire was lit on the beach and the men relaxed. A tune from a tin whistle encouraged a few voices to join in the shanties. A few danced but found the sand too soft. Most men were happy to rest after the day’s hard toil. A few walked down to the water and dipped their feet. Others sprawled out on the beach, hands behind their heads, and gazed at the stars. The majority gathered around the fire or sat under the canvas awning and smoked or played games. With more than forty men absent collecting wood or water, the number of crew the cook had to feed was reduced.

  It was the cries from the two young boys scrambling down the hillside that attracted everyone’s attention. The captain in particular, was pleased to see them back. They had been gone longer than expected. Eager to know if there was any news, he ambled over the sand to speak with his lieutenant. But the expression on Ben Tully’s face told him everything was not well.

  ‘What is it?’ the captain enquired.

  The lieutenant kept his voice low. ‘We found a gallows on a beach with six corpses hanging from it. Fresh corpses at that.’

  Chapter 6

  The Village

  ‘The sight of dead bodies hanging from the gallows was a shock to the two lads, especially Tommy Wainwright. The younger boy, Charlie, said nothing. It was nothing new to him after seeing cartloads of carcasses wheeled through the streets in Gibraltar.’

  ‘Describe what you saw when you reached that place,’ the captain asked.

  ‘I didn’t see anything when I first stepped onto the beach,’ Ben Tully replied. ‘It was the sight of the buzzards wheeling overhead made me think something was amiss. The hawks were screeching and fighting each other and making a strange unholy noise―like a cat meowing. I’d never heard that sound before. But the boys didn’t notice and ran ahead, racing up and down the sand hills. That’s how they came across the gallows. Six poor beggars. Dead for not much more than a day or two, I’d say.’

  ‘Was anyone about?’

  Mr Tully nodded. ‘An old woman was crouched at the feet of one of them. I think it was her husband. She was scared of
us at first, until I got Charlie to speak to her. But because of her wailing and blubbering, he found it difficult to understand what she was saying. However, she told him of boats on the beach and men who had come to the village and done terrible things, and dragged the men away and hanged them.’

  ‘Did she say for what reason?’

  ‘No, and he couldn’t find out.’

  ‘Who were these men in boats? What nationality were they? What ship did they arrive in?’ Oliver asked, anxious to know more.

  ‘The boy tried his best, but it was impossible. She told him they were not Portuguese, and not whalers either. She understood about whaling ships and said American and British whalers had come to the island in the past. Charlie asked if the ship was a man-o’-war, but she told him she didn’t see a ship, only the boats.’

  ‘It’s unlikely they were Barbary pirates,’ Oliver murmured. ‘Too far off course. More likely a slaver or rogue privateer―perhaps even the ship that was following us.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Mr Tully asked.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘Anything is possible. But why would anyone stop at such an unlikely spot and do this?’

  ‘Perhaps his ship was damaged, like ours, and they wanted to careen it.’

  Oliver thought that was too unlikely a coincidence. ‘Did you discover anything more?’

  ‘No, sir. The woman was beyond talking. After Charlie had finished speaking with her, she didn’t seem afraid of us, but she was anxious to get back to her village.’

  ‘Did you go with her?’

  ‘No,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘I didn’t know how far it was or what reception we would receive when we arrived there. I thought it best to come back and tell you.’

  ‘Very wise, Mr Tully, you did the right thing.’