by M. C. Muir
The following morning, the peeps of the Bosun’s pipes called all hands to witness punishment. Escorted by a pair of marines, Bungs was brought up from below. Standing in the centre of the ship’s company gathered on deck was Prescott, the left side of his face swollen and his eye half-closed.
Swinging a hammer for his lifetime’s toil meant the cooper could deliver a fair blow whenever he needed to. Only this was the first time, apart from in a serious fight aboard an enemy ship, that he had ever let fly at another sailor―though he had threatened to do so many times. Those who knew Bungs well swore his bark was worse than his bite.
‘Did you witness this fight, Mr Tully?’ the captain asked.
‘No, sir. Mr Hanson brought the charge.’
‘You saw it, Mr Hanson?’
‘Not exactly, sir. I arrived a moment after and found Prescott down on the deck.’
The captain frowned. ‘Step forward, Prescott.’
Despite a swollen lip, the smug expression on his face was undeniable.
‘This is not the first time you have been brought before me for fighting. Did you provoke the cooper to strike you?’
‘Not likely, Capt’n. He’s bigger than me. I didn’t say nowt to him. I was just minding my own business and he came up and walloped me.’
With no alternative but to address the charge that had been laid, the captain turned to the cooper. ‘You are charged with fighting on deck. What do you have to say for yourself?’
Bungs remained silent. It was as though he had either not heard the words or could not understand them.
‘I asked you a question, Bungs. You will give me your answer or I will add dumb insolence to your offence.’
‘He’s not well,’ Eku shouted.
‘Who said that?’ Mr Tully called.
Eku stepped forward. ‘I did, sir.’
‘And what would you know? Are you his keeper?’
‘No, sir. I’m his mate.’
‘Then keep your nose out of the captain’s business or you’ll find your name in the book also.’
Still seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of talk concerning him, Bungs neither struggled nor blinked. Even when the sentence was delivered and he was led across the deck and his wrists seized to the grating, he did not speak. Only when the first stroke of the cat clawed his smooth back, did he struggle against the cords holding him, but the gag across his mouth prevented him from calling out. With the repeated strokes of knotted leather slicing his back, the cooper tensed and groaned and tears welled in his eyes. More than forty years in the service and, remarkably, this was the first time he had suffered the cat’s sting. The whisperings from amongst the crew received glares from the midshipman who had brought the charge. Questioning glances were exchanged between Bungs’ mates.
When the punishment was over, Mr Whipple examined the man’s injuries and, as was the usual procedure, recommended he be taken to the sick berth for his wounds to be attended to. The captain agreed with the request. After dismissing the gathering and watching the men disperse, he turned to Mr Parry. There was something about the atmosphere that troubled him.
‘See the men have some worthwhile occupations to keep them busy,’ Oliver said. ‘Bungs is popular and I fear this sort of thing leaves a nasty taste.’
The events of the following day did nothing to improve the men’s spirits. John Fairclough, one of the men who had been injured in the fight aboard San Nicola, died as a result of his wounds. A musket ball had shattered his collar bone and, though the ship’s surgeon had managed to remove both the shot and the loose fragments of bone, he could do nothing to prevent the blood poisoning spreading throughout the sailor’s body.
With all hands gathered on deck for the burial service, Captain Quintrell glanced up from his open Bible and considered the crew’s faces. Usually a few men demonstrated some degree of genuine grief but, on this day, all the expressions were blank and emotionless. Even after the body had splashed into the Atlantic, there were no sighs, no inappropriate jokes and false laughter, no tears, and not a single word was spoken. With several weeks sailing ahead before they raised the coast of Brazil, Oliver was concerned for his men.
The celebrations the crew had all enjoyed after taking van Zetten’s ship was the type of euphoria shared after a successful sea battle, but it never lasted. As days went by, the feeling of elation quickly drained from them. The sullen mood, the expressionless faces, even the lethargic way the men climbed the rigging or swabbed the decks appeared infectious and no one was immune.
Boredom was almost as demoralising for the men as defeat. His only hope was that, when they crossed the Equator the mood would change. He prayed the Doldrums would not drift north into their path and that nothing else would interrupt their passage. Very soon they would be entering the tropics and the thermometer would show an increase in temperature, but with the oppressive heat came lethargy and listlessness.
Crossing the line was an excuse for an extra ration of grog and half-day of leisure, providing the captain permitted it. While the form of sadistic pleasure it often entailed was not something Oliver usually condoned, on this occasion he decided to encourage the ritual with a view to raising the men’s spirits.
Standing on the quarterdeck observing a group of men leaning on a gun in the waist, Oliver questioned his first lieutenant.
‘I want to know about the six men you signed in Ponta Delgada. Mr Read told me very little. I have since discovered they are all Irish.’
‘Indeed they are,’ Simon Parry said. ‘They are landsmen not sailors. They claim they were shipwrecked on a passage to America. This is the reason they had very little dunnage.’
‘I trust they are not spies hoping to be taken aboard a French ship,’ Oliver responded flippantly. ‘Continue.’
‘One claimed he was a baker, so I allocated him to the bread room. Another professes to be a clerk. The other four have no trades, or admitted to none. I put two of them in the fo’c’sle, one in the hold and one volunteered to help with the animals. When on deck, they follow whatever orders they are given and appear to comply without complaint, but I thought it best to separate them.’
‘Very wise.’
‘Allocate one of the men to the cooper,’ the captain suggested.
‘I don’t think Bungs will take kindly to having an assistant.’
‘Bungs will do as he is told. Better he is kept busy at his horse and vents his anger on barrels and not on members of the crew.’
The lieutenant nodded. ‘The man who called himself a clerk said he worked as a writer in the office of the East India Company in Liverpool. He had noticed your bandaged hand and asked if he could be useful in assisting you.’
‘He did, did he? What is his name?’
‘Michael O’Connor.’
‘I will speak with him in due course. In the meantime, the division captains should treat these new arrivals as if they are pressed men. Don’t expect too much at first but don’t be lenient either, and report anything about them that seems unusual or troubling.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mr Parry said.
‘I have spoken briefly with the doctor about them. Being of Celtic forebears, Mr Whipple tends to be a little wary. He is all too familiar with the antics of the United Irishmen and their bitter hatred of British rule. “Once a rebel always a rebel” was the phrase he coined.’
‘But the Irish Rebellion was in 1798―six years ago. If I am not wrong, most of the ringleaders ended up on the gallows or died in jail, while others were transported overseas. As for the poor farmers, it is said that many lost everything―their land, their houses, and their families. And the atrocities perpetrated by both sides were horrific.’
Oliver agreed. ‘The doctor reminded me that in certain parts of Ireland, many still bear a grudge. Yet he has spoken briefly with these men and finds no spite or malice in their attitudes.’
The lieutenant continued. ‘Perhaps we should not forget the large number of Irishmen who already serve in the Bri
tish Navy. As for the other Irish seamen aboard Perpetual, they are loyal and good seamen.’
‘Thank you, Simon. Let us hope that is the case with these fellows.’
After a long tiring night, that saw a storm drench the deck, Oliver returned to his cabin just before sunrise, removed his boat cloak and flopped down into his armchair. He intended to remove his shoes and urged himself to climb into his bunk but, before either could be achieved, he was asleep.
‘Captain,’ Casson called.
He woke immediately. For Oliver Quintrell, like any other man of naval or military discipline who had courted danger for many years of his life, the speed with which his mind, body and senses could transition from near unconsciousness to complete alertness was remarkable.
With the call from his steward came the sound of distant cries. Was it an argument? Were the voices raised in anger or alarm? At least there were no peeps or drums or echoes of distant guns, and with the roll of the sea having eased, the ship was sailing smoothly.
‘You’re wanted below. In the hold. Mr Parry asked me to fetch you.’
‘What is the commotion about?’ Oliver asked, thinking his steward was close behind him. But Casson had returned to the cabin to collect the captain’s pistols.
Around the ladder, leading down into the bowels of the ship, several sailors had congregated and were muttering together.
‘Out of my way!’ the captain called.
The men stepped back.
At the bottom of the ladder, a seaman was holding a lantern. ‘They are down yon far end, sir,’ he said, swinging the lantern in a forward direction. But the beam of light merely threw shadows around the frigate’s hull, pitching the spaces between the barrels into blackness.
‘Bring more light,’ the captain ordered, as he stepped down onto the gravel ballast.
Despite the faint glimmer from up ahead, he was guided by the sound of men shouting. Seeing the silhouette of a seaman standing with his legs apart gripping an adze in his hands alarmed him, especially as he was without a weapon. Then, as he moved closer, he saw a group of men struggling on the deck. The sight of Mr Parry and Mr Tully behind the mob was reassuring.
‘What is going on here, Mr Parry?’ he called.
Before the first officer had chance to reply, one of the seamen answered for him. ‘Bungs has gone raving mad! He’s been smashing the barrels.’
Oliver looked down at the struggle going on at his feet. The five sailors were not fighting each other. Four of them were attempting to restrain a single man―the ship’s cooper. Having wrestled him to the ground, two were holding his wrists, another holding his legs while Ekundayo, the Negro, was straddling his chest. All four were urging him to be still, but Bungs was cursing them and ignoring their demands.
Mr Parry spoke up. ‘It appears Bungs took to the barrels with his adze.’
‘Been mixing turps with his grog? Looking for hidden treasure?’ Smithers added.
‘Who said that?’ the captain demanded, shocked at the mention of treasure. Was that word used in jest or did the sailor know something?
‘Enough, Smithers!’ Mr Parry yelled. ‘On deck, this instant! If you utter one more word, I guarantee I will have you in irons.’
‘Only telling it as it is, Mr Parry, sir.’
‘Enough. Back on deck anyone who is not lending a hand.’ Oliver turned to the marine who was standing by with his musket lowered. ‘Put that away before you kill somebody. Go fetch some rope and shackles.’
He was puzzled and shook his head at the troubling sight. Bungs had sailed with him on several cruises and was known and respected by most of the crew. Although he was a cantankerous and bombastic old coot who did not contend well with criticism, interference or new crew, he was an excellent craftsman, a useful member of his gun crew and an honest and loyal seaman. If that had not been the case, he would never have charged him with the task of hiding the valuable chests of coins in the hold.
Looking around, it was not hard to calculate the damage that had been done. The top hoops of three water barrels had been removed, the liquid having spilled onto the gravel and seeped through to the bilge. The sides of two other barrels, one of pork and one of potatoes had been smashed and their contents wasted. But what was odd was that the area where the commotions had taken place was some distance from where the chests of Spanish treasure were hidden.
‘This makes no sense,’ Oliver said, taking his lieutenant aside. ‘Why would the cooper do this?’
Mr Parry already knew the answer. ‘He wasn’t looking for treasure. He was looking for Chips.’
The captain shook his head. ‘What? Chips is on deck. I passed him on the companionway only a moment ago.’
‘No, not Mr Crosby―the new Chippie, he said he was looking for Percy Sparrow.’
Oliver’s heart sank.
‘He was bellowing out for help saying Percy was stuck in one of these barrels and he had to find him and get him out.’
Oliver turned to Mr Tully. ‘Ask the surgeon to come down here immediately.’ Then he leaned down to the man spread-eagled on the ground. ‘Settle down, Bungs. You must come to your senses.’
The cooper relaxed to the sound of the captain’s voice, but his eyes were unable to focus as he looked up with an expression of child-like innocence on his face. ‘You don’t understand, Captain,’ he said, tears filling his eyes. ‘Percy didn’t go ashore in Rio like you thought. He’s down here somewhere.’
The accusation came as a painful reminder. Oliver leaned closer to the man’s ear and spoke quietly. ‘We haven’t reached Rio yet, and the last time we did was two years ago. Percy Sparrow died two years ago.’
Bungs turned his head away and fought to free his arms, but Ekundayo was sitting across his chest and had his knees firmly planted on the cooper’s upper arms.
‘That’s not true,’ Bungs yelled. ‘I was talking to him on deck just a while ago.’
While he was still struggling, Dr Whipple and one of the marines, carrying a set of leg shackles, arrived at the same time.
‘Get your black carcass off me,’ Bungs bellowed, but Eku was not to be budged. Only when the cooper’s legs had been secured did the Negro slowly release his hold and slide off. With his wrists tied behind his back, the cooper was permitted to sit up.
‘Bastards, all of you,’ he swore. ‘You’ll have Percy’s death on your conscience for the rest of your days.’
For Oliver Quintrell, there was a painful truth in that final statement.
‘Don’t put him on a charge, Captain,’ Eku pleaded. ‘He meant no harm. He just ain’t been himself lately.’
The doctor had already arrived at a similar conclusion. ‘If this man is seeing ghosts of sailors long dead, he is hallucinating. If not demented, he is certainly very confused. I need to examine him in the cockpit.’
‘Is that wise? He could become violet again.’
‘Don’t worry, Captain. I will make sure he is restrained and a good dose of laudanum will soothe his outbursts.’
Oliver accepted the doctor’s opinion.
‘You there, Ekundayo, you are one of the cooper’s mess-mates, are you not? Is this the first time you have witnessed such an outburst.’
Eku looked over to William Ethridge, who had also been assisting.
‘Speak!’ the captain ordered. ‘The doctor and I cannot read your thoughts.’
‘Nothing like this, Capt’n, but me and Will and Young Tommy have noticed how strange he’s been these last few days.’
‘In what way?’
‘Like he didn’t answer the bells when he should have, and sometimes he burst out laughing for no reason as if he was listening to a joke, only no one was telling it. And if you spoke to him on deck, he’d ignored you like he didn’t see you.’
‘We all know what Bungs is like,’ Mr Parry argued. ‘A canny beggar at times.’
‘Aye,’ Mr Tully agreed, ‘but he’s far from stupid. He’s usually sharp as a tack and has an answer for everything wit
h a joke or a serve of lip to go with it. Besides, he never misses anything that is going on in the ship. You could always trust Bungs to get the first whiff of any whispers passing around.’
William Ethridge added his support. ‘It’s not like Bungs at all. It’s like he’s a different man. And after the lashing he took the other day, I asked him what made him do it.’
‘Rightful punishment for his crime,’ Mr Tully pointed out.
‘What did he answer?’ the captain asked.
‘“What lashing?” Bungs said. “In all my days in the service, I ain’t never had one.” It’s got me beat,’ Will said. ‘This ain’t the Bungs we know and he don’t seem to know us.’
The doctor was listening and scratched his head. ‘Apart from his recent punishment, I don’t recall him visiting the cockpit or presenting himself at sick call for any ailment lately. Do you know if he has suffered any injuries lately?’
Will glanced at his new mess-mate. ‘Aye, he took a bad knock on the side of his head on the deck of the San Nicola during the fighting. He told me he was on the foredeck when the ship almost went over and said one of the blocks swung loose and gave him a fair whack on the temple. He swore the force would have knocked any other man clean over the rail. I saw him on deck soon after, wiping away the blood that had run into his ear.’
Eku took up the story. ‘He complained about the pain in his head for the next three days and said he couldn’t see straight.’
‘So why didn’t he report to me?’ the doctor asked.
‘We told him he should, but, you know Bungs, he’d never admit to nothing, especially a bit of pain. Stubborner than any old mule. After that, we let him be and he moped around like he was in a day-dream.’
‘And this fellow Percy Sparrow, who he calls Chips, did he really believe this man was hiding in the hold. Were they friends?’ Mr Whipple asked.