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

by M. C. Muir

  Before the squall hit, the schooner and fully-rigged ship were gaining a little. Both could be seen as they were lifted to the top of the swell before sliding down into the next trough. The motion was that of a rocked cradle, the masts arcing dramatically from one side to the other.

  Observing the San Nicola through his telescope, the sailing master saw a section of the cap rail suddenly blow out, as if it had been hit by a shot fired from within the ship. It soon became apparent that, as the ship heeled, a gun on the weather deck had broken its lines and crashed through the rail. With its rear carriage wheels firmly lodged in the splintered gunwale, the cannon balanced precariously. When the hull slid beam-end towards the bottom of the trough, the barrel dropped into the sea trailing its tackle behind it, leaving the carriage dangling over the side of the ship held only by its breeching lines. If there were any other guns on the deck that had not been securely fastened, they, too, could cause havoc and cost lives. Never were a ship’s gun crews in such mortal danger.

  Having watched the drama unfold and provided his own commentary, the sailing master closed his telescope. ‘She’s top-heavy,’ he announced.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mundy. I have been aware of that for some time and have been expecting such an event to occur.’ Turning his back on the sailing master, Captain Quintrell made his way to the binnacle and waited for the storm to arrive.

  The fierce squall was violent, and the speed with which it descended on the frigate was amazing. A cross-wind rattled the luffs. It preceded a brief and ominous calm before a solid front of rain charged across the sea churning up the surface like a huge pod of porpoises bearing down on them. The rain bounced back off the surface as if hitting solid rock. The sea heaved in response. Then the sky closed in completely, enveloping the frigate in a pocket of weird aqua light through which they could see no further than a few yards in any direction. When the full force of the wind struck, it ripped foretopsail, carried away the outer jib and pitched the bowsprit deep into a wall of water that wanted to hang onto it. The foremast creaked and swayed but held. As the head came around, the frigate heeled over, listing far further than when she had been careened.

  Perpetual’s crew completed the manoeuvre successfully, though with no time to spare. Had the crew not worked quickly, the vessel would not have survived. Now the wind was behind her driving her towards the point where the two ships had last been seen.

  When the cloud suddenly lifted and the rain cleared, only San Nicola could be seen ahead of them. The schooner had parted company and was heading south making good time. Was it possible the original crew of the East Indiaman had managed to retake the schooner during the confusion? Oliver wondered. He hoped that was the case. Or perhaps van Zetten’s men who were in command of that vessel were tired of being at the beck and call of a murderous dog and had decided it was time to part company.

  ‘Should we go after it?’ Mr Parry asked.

  ‘No, let it go. I will deal with that one later. It’s van Zetten I want.’

  But, like himself, the pirate had anticipated when the squall would strike and had worn his ship around. He was now completing his turn, tacking and coming back on his previous course and the distance separating the British frigate and San Nicola was less than a mile.

  Suddenly a ball whizzed through the air and splashed into the water dropping a hundred yards short of Perpetual’s bow.

  ‘Forward guns. Prepare to fire.’

  The captain’s plans had been dashed. But at least he had the weather gage in his favour and he intended to take the pirate before he had the chance to escape. While the frigate had 32 guns, it was possible van Zetten had more, but he doubted his opponent had sufficient trained gun crews to fire them, and, with a top-heavy ship, anything could happen.

  He repeated his previous instructions to his lieutenants. ‘Have your crews fire for the masts and rigging. I want that ship brought to its knees.’

  The challenge for the gun captains was to choose the exact moment. To fire on the up-roll was to discharge the shot into thin air, and to fire on the down roll would lodge the ball in the ocean. There was little point in ordering the marines into the tops, as they needed two hands to climb and were more likely to drop their weapons than get off a successful shot.

  With the gap shortened Perpetual sailed to within firing distance. A shot splashed into the water after failing to reach the deck. On deck, the men ducked when grape and canister sailed overhead poking holes in the canvas.

  On the call from the division captains, the frigate’s guns jumped into life, deafening those on the gun deck and rattling the frigate’s fibres from bow to stern. As the frigate was manoeuvred parallel to the ship, the muzzles were raised to fire at the rigging, the guns loaded and rolled out and fired. Choking on the acrid smoke, the gun crews could barely see as they swabbed out the barrels, reloaded and rolled out the guns again.

  In response, the numerous small swivel guns on San Nicola’s deck peppered the frigate’s deck, putting more holes in the topsails and topgallants. Smoke belched from the 9-pounders on the pirate’s deck but the crew’s aim was poor.

  San Nicola’s forestay twanged and whipped wildly when a shot from one of Perpetual’s guns severed it. A loud crack followed. The foretopmast toppled but it failed to reach the deck. Threatening to drop at any minute, it hung suspended by its lines draping a huge curtain of sail across the width of the foredeck.

  ‘From here, I can put a shot below her waterline,’ Mr Tully claimed.

  ‘No,’ Captain Quintrell argued. ‘That will sink her and the prisoners who are aboard do not deserve to die. I intend to take her. Free the prisoners. Then you can consider blowing her to Kingdom come.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

  Drifting alongside, Perpetual unleashed a full broadside into van Zetten’s sails and rigging, ripping the main and mizzen to shreds. With the remnants of his canvas aback, the pirate’s ship made no headway.

  ‘Spray the deck,’ the captain called. ‘Knock out the swivel guns. Bring her in close enough to board.’

  Aboard San Nicola, van Zetten was yelling commands and his men were firing wildly when a direct hit on the hull jolted the frigate.

  ‘Send the carpenter below to assess the damage. Helmsman―bring me closer.’ The boarding party had already gathered in the waist and was waiting for the call to come up.

  ‘Marines to the rigging,’ Oliver yelled, ‘Prepare to board.’

  With the cracking sound of timbers splintering, the bow of the frigate ground along the side of the old ship. A dozen grapnels were tossed through the smoke to the opposing rail bridging the gap between the two hulls.

  ‘Perpetuals with me!’ Captain Quintrell called. At the command, sailors streamed up from the waist, rushed across the deck and reached for the lines hanging from the fallen rigging to haul themselves aboard the enemy ship.

  Surrounded by a mob of his men, Oliver clambered aboard and jumped down on to the deck. But, when the smoke cleared, the scene that met him was not what had been expected. Swaying to the motion of the sea, a line of men faced him, their wrists bound with rope, their arms held out in front of them. The line ran along the length of the ship. Behind it were the faces of men holding knives to the prisoners’ throats. The Portuguese sailors formed a human shield protecting the pirate and his crew.

  ‘Don’t fire!’ Oliver ordered.’

  Fredrik van Zetten’s voice boomed out triumphantly. ‘You will drop your weapons or every one of these men will be killed.’

  No one moved.

  ‘Don’t listen to him!’ The words shouted in English came from a man in the line. He was not wearing his dress uniform, but Oliver recognized Captain Espada of the Portuguese Navy.

  ‘Death to this Devil!’ he cried.

  No sooner had he spoken than a cutlass was raised over Captain Espada’s head and brought down with Almighty force, splitting his skull and slicing his face down to his nose.

  The frightened seamen, who had served h
im, froze.

  ‘Van Zetten,’ Oliver yelled, ‘you are a coward. You hide behind defenceless men. You do not frighten me. I am here to take you and your ship. And, this time, you will not escape.’

  ‘Never,’ van Zetten screamed, leaping onto the fife rail at the base of the mainmast. ‘Death to the English dogs!’ he cried, raising his sword above his head.

  At their captain’s sign, knives sliced across the pale throats of the defenceless prisoners and blood spurted across the deck. Immediately, the boarding party leapt forward deliberately knocking aside the Portuguese sailors, who were still standing, aiming their weapons at the brigands hiding behind them. Armed with cutlasses and pistols, the first shots brought down more than a dozen of the rebels. The fight was brutal. The marauders’ deadly mode of fighting was to slash wildly at arms and legs to cut their opponent down.

  Unlike the previous fight where capstan bars, boathooks and belying pins has been the crews’ only weapons, this time they were armed with pistols, knives, boarding pikes and cutlasses. Cold steel cut and clanged as Quintrell’s men battled van Zetten’s crew.

  With wrists still tied, the Portuguese sailors who had survived the massacre, dived under the boats for cover or tried to escape from San Nicola by clambering over the fallen spars and taking refuge on the frigate. Those lucky enough to pick up a discarded blade cut their bonds and screamed revenge for the death of their shipmates. Skulls were broken, eyes gouged, necks snapped, bellies sliced open. Entangled around one man’s feet were the slippery entrails from one victim. They were dragged across the deck. Blood, escaping along the seams, decorated the deck with red stripes.

  With his naval sword glinting in the burst of sunlight, Oliver Quintrell thrust forward edging his way through the mêlée in search of the one opponent he wanted to confront. But there was no sign of van Zetten. Was he dead already? he wondered.

  Then a swivel gun, fired from the poop, showered small shot across the deck. A dozen men from both sides fell to the grape, either dead or mortally wounded. Standing defiantly beside the gun, waiting for it to be reloaded, was Captain van Zetten.

  Oliver roared as he headed forward directly into the muzzle. Lifting his weapon, he slashed the arm holding the slow-match, the power of his blow almost severing the hand from the gunner’s wrist.

  The pirate glowered at him from the far side of the gun. ‘Ha,’ he taunted, ‘you will never take me.’

  The challenge sent a thrill spiralling down Oliver’s spine. ‘We shall see,’ he replied.

  At that moment, Ben Tully leapt up beside him, the cocked pistol in his hand pointing directly at the pirate’s head.

  ‘Not this time,’ Oliver yelled, knocking the barrel aside. ‘The rat is mine.’

  The coward leapt back from the swivel gun and drew his sword. Oliver noticed the bandage around his arm, the legacy from their previous encounter. But his own hand still bore the scratch from that fight, and with only half a hand to grip the hilt of his sword, he had no sympathy for the pirate’s injury.

  Despite flashes of action in the corners of his eyes, Oliver’s attention was on the man a few yards away from him.

  Slashing his curved blade in great sweeps from left to right, van Zetten paid no heed to the men fighting alongside him and never flinched when he sliced the cheek of one of Oliver’s men and the thigh of one of his own.

  Thrusting forward, Oliver advanced inch by inch. The swords rang when they met. The razor-sharp blades flashed in the sun. A breath of wind kissed the captain’s face as van Zetten’s blade sliced even closer. Oliver parried, then pushed the renegade back with lightning quick thrusts until his adversary bumped up against a man fighting behind him. He was unable to retreat any further. In that instant, Oliver darted his blade forward and thrust the point deep in van Zetten’s chest.

  When he withdrew his sword, a whoosh of air escaped before blood spurted from the gaping wound. The pirate’s eyes blazed and his jaw dropped open but no sound came out. Before his hand reached to his chest to stop the flow, his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the deck.

  Sanding over him, Oliver turned to face his men, ‘The dog is dead,’ he yelled.

  Within seconds, the fighting stopped. Men moaned or cried as they clutched their wounds. Others dropped to the scuppers and sat in silence while their blood flowed over the ship’s side. The realization of victory struck the Perpetuals and a cheer rang out. It was echoed from the deck of the British frigate.

  ‘What do you want me to do with the body?’ Mr Tully asked.

  ‘Get this pig’s carcass off the deck and over the side. I refuse to give him a Christian burial. Damn him!’ Oliver cursed. ‘The blackguard even denied me the pleasure of seeing him hang from the yard.’

  His second lieutenant was standing beside him. ‘Why not string him up anyway?’ Mr Tully suggested. ‘That’s what they did with pirates in the old days.’

  The captain shook his head, then pondered for a moment. ‘Make me a noose from a short length of rope. Then drag this rogue’s carcass to the mizzen and lash him to it. I will decide what to do with him later.’

  ‘Captain,’ William Ethridge called urgently. ‘The ship is listing. I think she’s going down.’

  ‘Go below and check the damage. See how much water she’s taken in. Tell me how long we have before we lose her.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

  ‘Mr Nightingale, go with him and be smart about it.’

  The pair hurried away, scrambling over fallen rigging and the bodies of sailors, both dead and living. There was no option but for the victims but to throw them over the side. For those that had survived the fight, the difficulty was in determining on whose side each sailor had served. The blood-splattered naval issue worn by the crew of Pomba Branca was one indication, and the ugly faces of some of the rogue crew were also recognized. Sorting the remaining Portuguese sailors who had stood bravely on deck beside Captain Espada, from the cut-throats who followed van Zetten was not easy.

  ‘Line the scoundrels up along the rail and shackle them,’ Captain Quintrell called, as a weird feeling of déjà vu flashed through his head. Was it worth the trouble of taking these men to Rio? Would the Portuguese authorities listen to him this time and take heed of their participation in the atrocities? Or would they do nothing? Was he wasting his time and putting his men at risk yet again?

  This time, however, van Zetten and his crew had not merely stolen a merchant ship and murdered a few insignificant villagers, they had attacked and sunk a Portuguese naval frigate, killed its captain and murdered many of its crew. This time, they must pay for their crimes.

  ‘Bosun,’ the captain yelled. ‘Rig up a gangway between the two ships. We must get everyone off. I want the prisoners transferred to Perpetual’s hold. Make sure you have enough men with you and stand no nonsense. Shoot the first man who tries to escape. Then batten the hatches securely and have a dozen men stand guard.’

  As the bosun hurried away, Mr Tully returned. In his blood-stained hands he held a well-formed noose, neatly tied, made from a length of salt-hardened line. ‘Is this what you want?’ he asked.

  Oliver Quintrell looked at his second lieutenant, a man who had entered the service through the hawse hole. Perhaps he would understand. Striding aft to the mizzen, the captain considered the lifeless body of Fredrik van Zetten. Having lifted the corpse to a seated position on the rail, Mr Tully had rested the rogue’s back against the mast and lashed him to it.

  Without any sign of emotion, Oliver placed the noose over the pirate’s head and, after tightening the knot around his neck, allowed the remaining line to drop to the deck.

  ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘This is the least I can do.’ His gesture and words were not meant as an expression of victory or an apology, but as an offering to the numerous souls who had perished at the hand of the pirate, and to the villagers to whom he had given his promise.

  The voice of the young carpenter distracted him. ‘Five feet and rising, sir. She
won’t stay afloat much longer.’

  The captain turned to his lieutenant. ‘Get everyone back on board the frigate, then make sure Perpetual is well clear before this ship goes down. I don’t want her taking us with her.’

  Half an hour later, with Perpetual hove to only fifty yards from the stricken ship, British and Portuguese seamen stood shoulder to shoulder along the rail to witness San Nicola’s final moments. Her hull, already riddled with holes drilled by the sharp beaks of the Teredo worm, had finally succumbed to the bite of a nine-pound iron shot.

  Her dive to the deep was slow and graceful, the sea first licking her bow and fo’c’sle, before washing along the deck and lapping the poop. With her head down, the ship’s stern heaved up slightly and the water rushed aft towards the mizzen. The pirate, lashed to the mast with a noose fixed around his neck, was the last thing to be seen as the ship sank.

  There were no cheers or tears as the sea swallowed him up. Fredrik van Zetten had finally met the fate he deserved.

  Chapter 20

  EPILOGUE

  As the British frigate headed south, with over two hundred and fifty souls aboard, Captain Quintrell prayed for following winds and calm seas. On arrival in Rio de Janeiro, his priority was to speak with the authorities and despatch his prisoners―for the second time. They now numbered only twenty-five. While several had been killed in the fight, the remainder of van Zetten’s men had escaped on the schooner that had slipped away in the storm. It was unlikely those men would ever be caught.

  On reaching Rio, the badly wounded sailors, being cared for in the cockpit and on deck, would be transferred to the hospital. Once that business was attended to, Oliver intended to visit the victualling store and replenish the supplies that had been used. It had been a short, but tumultuous, Atlantic crossing beset by a series of unexpected eventualities, but he was confident he would make Rio without encountering any further problems.