The Seventy-Four

by M. C. Muir

  The officer was happy to echo the captain’s words.

  The pair drank and enjoyed a few minutes of comfortable silence while privately contemplating the homeward voyage.

  ‘I take heed of what you say,’ Oliver said, returning to the conversation as though there had been no break. ‘As you know, I value your opinion above any other. You are my eyes and ears on deck. However, I have a feeling my concerns may run deeper than mere seamen’s gripes and grievances.’

  The smile left the first lieutenant’s lips and his brow creased. ‘I do not entirely understand. To what are you referring?’

  ‘Tell me what you know of the group of men who attracted my attention on deck when I came aboard. If I am not mistaken, that is the same cabal I have seen engaged in conversation on several occasions in the last few weeks. Would that be so?’

  ‘Quite probably,’ Simon Parry replied. ‘I assume you are referring to the landsmen who signed in Ponta Delgada. There were half a dozen of them joined the ship at that time.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘I know the ones. What have you learned about them since they came aboard?’

  ‘Their physical details are recorded in the muster book – but as to their character and behaviour, I know little more than you gleaned from the authorities in the Azores. I can confirm that not one of those men is a sailor. The only time they ever spent at sea was aboard the ship they took passage on from Liverpool.’

  ‘The ship that sank, taking with it all their possessions and money,’ the captain added.

  ‘Do you believe their story?’ Simon Parry asked.

  Oliver nodded. ‘I do. Mr Read, the British Consul, is an astute man who would not easily have been duped. He told me of their misfortune and their intention to head for America where they were originally bound. Have you spoken with them?’ the captain added.

  ‘Not personally, but I was told they wanted to leave the ship as soon as we touched Rio. Their plan was to sign on any vessel that was heading north. But, with your change of orders, that would not be necessary.’

  Oliver agreed. ‘Have you had any problems with them?’

  ‘There have been no charges brought against any of them. They were allocated to various stations and were not kept together. However, when off duty, five of the original group are invariably seen together, as you noted earlier. Since we dropped anchor, I am aware these men have been the most outspoken about being confined. They demand to be paid off.’

  ‘Do they, indeed? For such a short time with the ship and with slops issued to them when they first signed, they will be lucky to have accrued any wages.’

  Oliver glanced from the window to the granite dome that dominated the entrance to Guanabara Bay. In the distance, beyond that, the angular mountain peaks rose even higher. In the bright cerulean sky, black frigate birds circled the ship on wings spanning more than six feet. Captain Quintrell shook his head in an attempt to dispel the memory of his last visit to this harbour. The birds stirred images he preferred to forget and the accompanying feeling of foreboding was not easy to shrug off. From the expression on his first officer’s face, he wondered if he was having similar feelings.

  ‘What troubles you, Simon?’

  ‘There is something about one of those men that unsettles me.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘No, it’s just an uneasy feeling. It appears he has the ability to gather a crowd around him and they listen to what he says. He attracts attention like a dead whale attracts sharks. At night, also, I have noted small groups murmuring in muted tones. Mr Nightingale has witnessed it also. It irks me but it’s not irregular enough to reprimand the men for.’

  ‘If you recollect, Simon, I never wanted to take those men aboard in the first place, but I was obliged to do so. Personally, I have had no quarrel with them. In fact, Michael O'Connor, who is currently acting as my scribe, is proving to be a useful asset and I would not want to lose his services. The other five, I cannot pass judgement on. All I can say is that for the present, no one leaves the ship without my permission.’

  ‘So be it,’ Mr Parry said. ‘However, might I remind you of the Portuguese sailors we plucked from the sea?’

  ‘How can I forget them?’ Oliver sighed. ‘I intend to speak with the port authorities tomorrow and arrange for their transfer as soon as possible. Is there anything else?’

  ‘What of the two women – Mrs Crosby and Mrs Pilkington, and the boy, Charles Goodridge, who has been annoying some of the men with his antics. Will you permit them to stay aboard?’

  ‘My views are that it is neither practical nor proper for the women to occupy precious space in the carpenter’s workshop. Since visiting the 74, I am considering having them transferred across. I will advise you of my decision later.’

  ‘But what of the doctor’s views?

  ‘What do you mean – “What of the doctor’s views”? This will be my decision and will have no bearing on the doctor’s views.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Simon? I know that Mrs Pilkington has been assisting the doctor in the cockpit.’

  ‘Not only that,’ Simon said cautiously.

  ‘Are you suggesting there is more to that relationship than that of a surgeon and a pair of willing hands?’ Oliver’s gaze questioned his lieutenant. ‘Jonathon Whipple is a professional medical man.’

  ‘But he is man not without feelings.’

  ‘Are you saying he is attracted to this young woman?’

  ‘I cannot speak for the doctor. I merely observe the way he looks at her and the manner in which she responds to him. I believe they share a certain mutual attraction and perhaps fondness.’

  ‘Then all the more reason the two women should go. I trust I shall hear no more of this matter.’

  ‘It was just a feeling.’

  ‘Another one of your feelings, Simon?’

  ‘Do you never follow your intuition, Oliver?’ the lieutenant asked.

  ‘I cannot afford to. I follow Admiralty orders to the best of my ability.’

  Despite a slight awkwardness, Simon Parry had another matter to address. ‘There was one more thing.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Oliver said.

  ‘During your absence, charges were laid against one of the fo’c’sle hands. I’ve had him placed in the hold under guard.’

  ‘What man, what rating and whose division is he in?’

  ‘Franz Gorman. Able seaman. He’s in Mr Hanson’s division.’

  ‘The offence?’

  ‘Fighting on deck.’

  ‘A minor scuffle?’ the captain asked.

  ‘A little more than that. I did not witness it myself but, from what I heard from Mr Hanson, he tried to strangle one of his mates. He accused him of mutinous talk and had the loose end of the starboard mainbrace wound several times around his neck. Apparently, he was trying to push the sailor over the side either to hang him or drown him.’

  Oliver frowned. ‘Was it just talk or did the other man provoke the attack?’

  ‘No. The sailor claimed he was merely sharing a joke when Gorman jumped on him.’

  The news was not what the captain wanted to hear. ‘Why does this sort of thing occur when I am off the ship?’

  The first officer shrugged. ‘Coincidence, Captain. What punishment will he receive?’

  ‘Let it be two dozen at the grating, though he deserves more.’

  Mr Parry hesitated as if intending to question the captain’s decision but it was only for a fleeting moment. ‘Two dozen it will be, sir.’

  ‘Call all hands to witness punishment, if you please, and pass word to the bosun to come to my cabin.’

  ‘Right now? Would it not be more appropriate tomorrow after the morning call?’

  ‘Right now, Simon. I have much to attend to in the morning. Let us get this over and done with as quickly as possible.’

  CHAPTER 2

  The Cat

  Grasping the stout handle, Oliver slid the hempen cat from its
red canvas bag. Allowing the nine tails to drop to the floor, he shook them apart as vigorously as a dog shakes its coat after emerging from a duck pond. Then, resting his hands beneath the knotted thongs, he draped the implement along the length of the table and carefully separated its tails. Not having been cleaned, the lash was thick with congealed blood and, towards the ends, the knots were flecked with tiny pale fragments. He studied them for a moment, before closing his hand around one of the tails, grasping it tightly and purposely pulling the knotted rope through his closed fist. Twice he winced silently to the passage of the hard knots over his skin.

  On reaching the end he released his grip and examined his hand. As expected, his palm was blackened with old blood, but it was also punctuated by spots of fresh red blood.

  ‘O’Connor!’ he called to the ginger-headed man sitting at a side table. ‘Put down your pen. I would borrow your magnifying lens and require a small dish and a pair of tweezers. Immediately, if you please.’

  The items were delivered to the table within seconds.

  ‘Anything else you’ll be wanting, Capt’n?’ the writer asked.

  ‘I need your attention for a moment. Tell me what you see here.’

  Michael O’Connor studied the cat of nine tails extended across the table. ‘You mean those?’ he said, pointing to the tiny specks adhering to the knots.

  ‘Yes, those flakes.’

  ‘Salt?’ the man suggested.

  ‘Please take a closer look.’

  The Irishman curled his nose. ‘Is this the lash that was used on the sailor from the fo’c’sle?’

  ‘Yes. The man had committed a crime. I believe you have been on board one of His Majesty’s ships long enough to be familiar with the Articles of War and the punishments laid down by the Admiralty.’

  ‘Yes, Capt'n, that I have.’

  Leaving the table, Oliver poured an inch of water into the basin on his wash stand, dipped his soiled hand into it then dried it gently and re-examined his palm. It struck him how different his palms were to the leather-hard, tar-stained hands of the sailors in the tops. His were soft and spongy – and now scratched.

  Holding the magnifying lens to his eye, he leaned over the knotted rope and examined it more closely.

  ‘See that,’ he said, touching one knot with the tips of the tweezers.

  O’Connor leaned forward. ‘Skin?’ the Irishman questioned vaguely.

  Oliver thought not. After worrying a particle that was lodged in the spun hemp, he pulled it free with the tweezers and held it in the ray of light streaming from the window. After dipping it in water, he studied it again through the magnifying lens and passed it to his scribe.

  ‘A fragment of glass?’ O’Connor enquired nervously.

  ‘You have heard of such things.’

  ‘I have, indeed. The practice is not new,’ he sighed dolefully. ‘It is cruel enough to flense the skin off a man’s back with rope or leather, but to score it with broken glass is the Devil’s own work.’

  From the expression on the man’s face, Oliver was convinced his concern was genuine and not contrived. ‘It is not glass,’ Oliver said. ‘I believe this is a fragment of rusted iron and I imagine it was scraped from the round shot on the gundeck.’ Not committing himself further, the captain looked again at his own hand. ‘The skin on a man’s back is no thicker or harder than that of a gentleman’s palm,’ he said. ‘The cat is cruel enough when swung with venom but a cat seeded with glass or rusted metal can be lethal. It can strip a man’s back of skin and muscle and lay bare the bone.’ He turned his face to his clerk. ‘Kindly ask Dr Whipple to attend me here and then return to your other duties.’

  The ginger head inclined towards the captain in the manner of a polite social gesture. Michael O’Connor was unaccustomed to a sailor’s salute. He still had much to learn.

  Oliver Quintrell studied the fine scratches across the palm of his hand yet again. The bleeding had stopped. Then he focused his lens on the cat’s other tails splayed across the polished surface.

  By the time the ship’s surgeon joined him, he had several tiny pieces of rusted iron sitting in a glass dish that he had concealed beneath a handkerchief.

  ‘I understand you examined the man who was punished last evening?’ the captain stated.

  ‘I did,’ the doctor replied. ‘His back was terribly shredded. He will live, although—’

  ‘Although what—?' Oliver questioned.

  ‘I believe the punishment was excessive.’

  ‘He was sentenced to two dozen at the grating – and that is what he received. You witnessed it yourself.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I did.’

  ‘Believe me, Jonathon, it is not something I enjoy ordering nor do I enjoy witnessing punishment but that number of lashes was lenient considering what the man had done and would not be regarded as excessive on most ships.’

  ‘I have witnessed the same amount of punishment elsewhere, and more, but this time—’ the surgeon shook his head. ‘By the time the man was taken down, his back resembled a plate of minced liver.’

  Oliver ignored the remark. ‘No doubt you cleaned the wound.’

  ‘As best I could for his pain was exquisite. In my estimation, he will not be fit for duty for more than a week.’

  Removing the cloth covering the small dish, Oliver slid it along the table for the doctor to examine. ‘Did you find any fragments, like these, in his wounds?’

  The doctor studied the fine particles. ‘If such foreign material was present, it would have been washed out on deck when his back was dowsed with sea water or, perhaps later, when he was brought down to the cockpit and I cleaned it myself.’

  ‘What if it was not?’ the captain asked.

  ‘Then the fragments, of whatever they are, will be absorbed by the scar tissue as the wound heals. Like splinters of wood that enter the skin during battle, if left alone, they eventually fester and work their own way out.’ The surgeon looked up at the captain. ‘Are you saying that someone deliberately pierced the knots of the lash with these needle sharp claws?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘That is diabolical. How could anyone do that? Does the cat usually remain in your cabin?’ he asked.

  ‘Not until recently. A new cat is made after every punishment and the bosun and his mates are the only ones who have access to it.’

  ‘You think it was one of those men.’

  ‘No,’ Oliver said bluntly.

  ‘Did anyone have a grudge against the man who received the punishment?’

  ‘Perhaps the man he tried to harm. I will endeavour to find out.’ With that, the captain gathered up the implement, wound the thongs around the handle but did not return it to the red bag. ‘Casson,’ he called. His steward responded immediately. ‘Do me a favour. Drop this over the side.’

  The steward raised his eyebrows. ‘Right now, Captain?’

  ‘Right this instant.’

  ‘Aye aye, Capt’n.’

  Oliver turned to the ship’s surgeon. ‘The bosun is not short of old rope. If he has not already done so, I will instruct him to make a new one forthwith.’

  As the steward could be heard running up the steps to the deck, Oliver removed the other items from the table, washed his hands and thanked the surgeon for offering his opinion.

  ‘Join me for dinner this evening and pass word to Mr Nightingale and the officers on deck. I have some news to share.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jonathon Whipple replied. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  The table had been almost cleared, apart from a large platter of strange exotic fruits, many of which the young midshipmen had never seen before and took delight in making jokes about. Sitting at the head, Oliver tapped the crystal decanter with a spoon. ‘Your attention, gentlemen,’ he called.

  The banter came to an immediately halt.

  ‘I trust you all enjoyed your supper.’ The captain’s words were applauded around the table. ‘Might I suggest you take special note of th
e tenderness of the beef? Cook went to great lengths, at risk to life and limb, by going ashore this morning to purchase it directly from the slaughterhouse. Be advised, it will be the last you will eat until we reach our destination. The pork, however, is unaware of its fate and is happily eating its fill in the manger.’

  The company laughed, raised their glasses and proceeded to drink to the health of the pigs.

  Sitting on the captain’s right, Mr Parry remained silent. As if infected by the disconsolate mood of the men, his spirits were somewhat deflated. He was anxious to hear the captain share his news with the other officers in order that the necessary arrangements for their forthcoming voyage could be put in place.

  With the attention of everyone around the table, the captain remained seated to address the assembled company. After taking a sup from his glass, he spoke. ‘Brandy, gentleman. Enjoy, for this is the last bottle from Napoleon’s vineyards that I have in my pantry. I considered this a suitable occasion to have Casson bring it to the table and when you hear the news, I am sure you will all agree. In the meantime, I propose we win this war against the Frogs so we no longer have to rely on English smugglers to replenish our stocks.’

  Oliver held out his hand to quieten the mirth. ‘Let me thank you for dining with me and inform you we have things to celebrate. Mr Hanson,’ he called. ‘Stand up – no don’t stand up, you will knock your head. Remain seated. Gentlemen, let me advise you Midshipman Hanson has today achieved the grand age of seventeen years. I offer you my congratulations, young man. At almost twice your age, I only wish I could turn back the clock.’ Oliver winked at Mr Mundy, his sailing master. ‘But on second thoughts, perhaps not.’

  Knuckles rapped on the table in agreement.

  ‘However, you were not invited to join me to hear that news. As you all know, yesterday I called on Captain William Liversedge aboard HMS Stalwart. The captain and I have been friends since we were young lieutenants serving aboard a first rate. For your information, he is a fine officer held in high esteem by the Admiralty. During the course of my visit, he handed me an envelope containing new orders which he had carried with him from the Admiralty in London. Gentlemen, you will be pleased to learn we sail within the week.’