by M. C. Muir
The doctor remained silent.
‘However, in answer to your question, I will not permit the women to go ashore with you or with anyone else. You witnessed, first hand, the misadventure that befell the pair when they were allowed abroad on the streets of Ponta Delgada. I cannot chance that happening again. In the meantime, I suggest you invite the women to prepare a list of their requirements for you to purchase, on their behalf, when you go into the town.’
Although Oliver doubted the doctor would understand his motives, he had good reason for not allowing either members of his crew or the women to leave the ship. The memory of his previous visit to Guanabara Bay was foremost in his mind.
‘I cannot afford to lose you or your equipment, Doctor. Therefore, I will detail one of the middies and a small detachment of marines to accompany you. Mr Parry will also be going ashore. I suggest you join him in a boat.’
Dejected, but not unduly surprised at the captain’s deliberation, the surgeon tapped his stick on the deck. The display of frustration did not go unobserved.
‘Will tomorrow suit?’ Oliver asked.
Resting both hands on the head of his cane, Dr Whipple acknowledged. ‘That will be fine.’
‘I trust you can still defend yourself with that,’ Oliver said, glancing down to the wooden cane. ‘You impressed me with your skills in Alicante.’
The surgeon nodded and his face brightened. ‘There is little space in this cabin for stick fighting but, occasionally, when the cockpit is empty or the patients are induced to sleep, I practice against an invisible enemy, much to the entertainment of the boys. Both Charles Goodridge and young Tommy Wainwright have asked me to teach them some of my moves.’
‘Have you agreed?’
‘I said I would if time permitted.’ Then his serious expression returned. ‘I pray I do not have to use my skill to defend myself.’
As he departed the cockpit, Oliver mulled over what the doctor had told him and considered the other matters he had to address in the coming days. It was essential the Portuguese sailors were returned to one of their country’s naval vessels as soon as possible. He was also obliged to arrange transfer of the Spanish silver to the 74-gun warship but he intended to leave that until the ships were almost ready to depart Guanabara Bay.
The news he had received about the cooper’s state of mind was reassuring. Bungs was one of only three or four people who had been present when the four chests containing Spanish treasure had been placed inside four large barrels and hidden in the hold. He thought it unlikely the cooper had marked the barrels indicating their unusual contents for fear of them being identified. For that reason, Oliver was concerned the cooper’s memory of the exact location of the specific barrels might have been lost.
Ships’ holds, whether in merchant or fighting ships, were dark, deep and dank regions housing hundreds of barrels stowed side-on, one row stacked on top of another, reaching from ballast base to deck beams. Throughout a cruise, barrels were constantly in demand, continually shifted, hoisted from the hold, emptied in the galley, or wherever they were required, and returned empty, to be disassembled or shipped home intact. Barrels varied in size, but with hundreds, sometimes thousands of each, locating one particular item could be extremely challenging.
Placing one foot on the first step of the ladder leading up to the gundeck, the captain was alerted by a hissing sound.
‘Yer ear, Capt’n,’ the voice called in a loud whisper.
Oliver recognised it. ‘What is it Bungs? I have urgent matters to attend to.’
‘Be wary of Michael O’Connor and the rest of his mob! Just saying, I am. Best thing would be to rid the ship of them that’s Irish.’
It seemed more than coincidental to the captain that he had just been speaking with the doctor about the cooper, and now here he was accosting him on the companionway steps. He knew the wooden walls of ships were porous and revealed many secrets but he doubted the cooper had heard the conversation he had just been having. His interruption certainly captured the captain’s attention.
‘What makes you say that, Bungs? You must have good reason.’
The cooper scratched a fresh growth of hair bristling from a scar running across his head. ‘Well, my brain might have been tossed like flotsam in a maelstrom, but I can assure you I ain’t as daft as I look, or as some folk take me to be.’
Oliver ignored that remark. ‘Continue.’
‘It’s just that I was resting my eyes in the hold – not sleeping mind – a day ago, when I hear this tapping sound. Tap-tap it went and then again tap-tap, tap-tap.’
‘And—?’
‘I knew it weren’t no rat with clogs on. I know that particular tapping sound pretty well. I knock on them barrels regular as clockwork every day. That’s how I know which is full and which is empty and what’s rotten and what’s in each of them. I can tell if it’s wine or water or beef or pork just by tapping.’
‘Did you investigate to discover who it was that was making the noise?’
‘I didn’t need to. It were that fellow who were sent to do my job after I were hindisposed. It were one of them red-headed Irish croppies.’
‘Don’t you think it possible the man was merely imitating your routine?’
‘Pig’s arse!’ he blurted, before slapping his hand across his mouth. ‘Sorry, Capt’n, I shouldn’t have said that. I reckon he was looking for the barrels with the coins stowed inside them.’
‘Shh!’ Quintrell said, quickly glancing around to ensure that no one was within earshot. ‘Are you sure about that? Perhaps it was in your imagination.’
‘Begging your pardon, Capt’n,’ Bungs remonstrated. ‘It might have seemed like my brain was double reefed for a spell but, I assure you, I never lost my memory or my nous. Trust me, Captain – just ask my messmates. They’ll tell you, I got this hintuition. I can smell right away when something ain’t right.’
The captain chose to ignore his comments. ‘The man you heard, did he know you were in the hold?’
‘No, he didn’t. I was tucked away out of sight between a couple of big leaguers, well away from the spill of the lantern light, where no one could find me.’
The captain raised his eyebrows.
‘I waited for a while after the tapping had stopped and, when I couldn’t hear no footsteps, I got up and looked about, but he’d gone.’
Oliver lowered his voice. ‘Do you think the man knows which barrels the chests were hidden in?’
‘Aye, as sure as a jack flies in a breeze.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Hintuition.’
‘But you said you didn’t see his face.’
‘I didn’t need to. I knew who it was.’
‘Thank you, Bungs. Go about your business. However, I suggest you spend less time hiding behind the barrels.’
But the cooper hadn’t done with the captain’s attention yet. ‘One more thing, Capt’n – about the boy who was sent down to help me. He can go too.’
The captain looked puzzled.
‘Young Charlie Goodridge,’ Bungs announced. ‘Too clever for his own clogs, in my opinion.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
The cooper shrugged. ‘Little squeaker thinks he knows it all. How old is he? Ten or a dozen years yet talks like he’s an old salt-pickled tar.’
‘Is that a problem for you?’
The old man poked his index finger in his nose and scratched around inside. ‘Not as such.’
‘Is he impudent or impolite?’
‘Not as I’ve noticed.’
‘What then? Does he refuse to do what you ask or speak out of turn?’
‘Ah! That’s it. It’s the speaking that’s his problem. Yap, yap, yap. He thinks he knows something about everything and verses an opinion about all manner of things. Then, he tells you about it, whether you want to hear it or not. And he sticks his nose into all manner of stuff begging to know the whys and wherefores, how this works or why this doesn’t work.
I tell you, Captain, it drives me crazy just listening to him. I can’t do with him harassing me when I’m trying to work.’
Oliver considered some of the boy’s questionable attributes reflected those of Bungs himself. ‘And where is the lad now?’
‘Don’t rightly know since I complained to Mr Tully and he dragged him off.’
The captain frowned. ‘I have more important things to concern myself with than the behaviour of one of the ship’s boys.
‘Are you going to do anything about him, Capt’n?’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Not the boy,’ Bungs said, ‘him that was tapping.’
Despite the cooper’s blatant impertinence, his continued bickering, his unkempt appearance and his pungent unwashed odour, Oliver had a liking for the old tradesman. He was a skilled craftsman, had been on and around navy ships for decades, had served with him aboard two frigates and, because his accident had occurred when he had been ordered to board a privateer’s ship, Captain Quintrell felt partly responsible for his injury.
‘For your information and for your ears only,’ Oliver said, ‘I have been ordered to transfer the cases of coins to HMS Stalwart – the 74-gun warship in the bay. When the time comes, I will need you to identify the barrels in question and show me exactly where they are. Will you be able to do that?’
‘Course I will. I might sound a bit simple, but I can turn it on, if I want to.’
The captain refrained from allowing a grin to crease the corners of his lips. ‘I suggest you don't mention that to the officer-of-the-watch but, for the moment, it will best suit the situation if you maintain your present guise. To say too much could put you in danger. I know only too well the lengths some sailors will go for a pipe of tobacco worth only a copper or two.’
It was obvious from the smug expression on the cooper’s face he was enjoying the privilege of the captain’s confidence, if only for a short while. ‘Do you want me to remove them barrels ready to hoist ’em on deck?’
‘Belay that,’ Oliver asserted. ‘For the moment, don’t touch anything. I will inform you when the transfer is due to take place and how it will be done.’
‘I’ll need some help.’
‘I realise that and I will seek some strong and trustworthy hands to assist you.’
The cooper was quick to respond. ‘Ekundayo would be a good choice, begging your pardon, Capt’n, for suggesting.’
‘Indeed, I agree. He’s a messmate of yours, is he not?’
‘Aye and William Ethridge. He helped hide them chests away in the first place.’
‘Thank you,’ the captain said.
The short conversation, while irregular, had proved opportune and answered some of the questions that had been confronting him. Oliver knew the transfer would not be easy and that the wooden walls of sailing ships had ears. But, until now, the treasure had been untouched. He had minded it according to the promise he had made to Captain Gore in Gibraltar and would not free himself from that responsibility until the cache of coins was delivered into the hands of the Admiralty in Portsmouth or London.
Turning towards the steps he lifted his foot to continue but the gravelly voice continued.
‘Do you think that fellow who was tapping the barrels was trying to steal the silver?’
‘If that were the case,’ Oliver said, ‘it would be an impossible task for one man to accomplish on his own. Therefore, I suggest you forget about him. Let us presume he was just investigating the rumour that we are carrying silver from a plate ship. I fear it is now an ill-kept secret.’
‘Aye, Captain. You can trust me,’ Bungs said.
‘Then this conversation is at a close. Let me hear no more mention of coins or treasure or Spanish silver or Michael O’Connor or the Irish for that matter. Those are issues I will deal with myself. The sooner you go about your business the better. And, in future, I would prefer you request an appointment to speak with me in my cabin rather than accosting me in the companionway.’
‘Aye aye, Capt’n, whatever you say.’
CHAPTER 4
The Wexford Lads
When the final grains of sand slid through its narrow neck, the hourglass was turned and the ship’s bell struck. Striding silently along the grey deck in the pale light that preceded dawn, the sailor completed his rounds, extinguishing the ship’s lanterns. The glim above the binnacle stand was the last to be snuffed.
In the east, the golden orb was emerging from the sea, casting its orange glow along the horizon and forcing the night back into the heavens. While, in the west, the rugged mountain peaks were slow to cast off their nocturnal hues. The waters of Guanabara Bay still slumbered, the vast inlet stretching its arms almost twenty miles in one direction and seventeen the other. When a breath of wind stroked its belly, the surface shivered and stirred before settling back again. Only when morning arrived would the broad expanse cast off its grey shroud and adopt the colour of the sky. Around its edges, the petticoat of white quartz beaches awaited the sun’s rays to set them gleaming.
Oblivious to the day unfolding around them, a woe-begotten mob crowded onto Perpetual’s forecastle and along the larboard gangway. Having emerged from the forward hatch, prompted by the ship’s bell and the bosun’s threats, they had shuffled towards the entry port where a pair of midshipmen was directing them over the side and into the first of the boats waiting to carry them up the bay. The line of individuals no more resembled sailors than beggars brought in from London’s backstreets by a desperate press gang struggling to fill its quota, or a stream of war-weary soldiers dragging themselves away from a European battlefield.
Not a single head bore a hat and few wore shoes, though some feet were bound in rags. Brown stained bandages wrapped around cracked crowns or weeping stumps that once bore healthy limbs. They followed after each other, one man’s hand touching the back of the fellow in front of him and, when the line stopped, they rested their weary bodies against the ropes coiled to the pin rails. Some leaned on a mate’s shoulder. A couple supported their weight on roughly hewn crutches.
Just a few, scattered amongst the group, appeared remarkably presentable showing barely a trace of dishevelment in themselves or their clothing. But for the majority, shirts were ripped or stained with old blood, pitch or powder. Some faces wore the indelible blue imprint of powder burns. Yet despite their pathetic condition, the murmur of conversations had a distinctly hopeful air about it. One sailor lifted his arm and pointed towards the houses on the nearby hillsides, while those next to him gazed bleary-eyed in that direction. Some thanked the Virgin when they turned to step down the ladder and traced the outline of the cross on their chests.
A haggard old salt, his face sculpted by deep dry wrinkles, was helped by two younger men. When he reached the rail and it was his turn to disembark, he looked to the quarterdeck and called out the word: ‘Obrigado’.
Captain Quintrell nodded in acknowledgement. He was pleased to see the seamen disembarking and relieved they had all arrived safely in a Portuguese port. For a few sailors, Rio de Janeiro was their home but for most it was a port where they would be welcomed, fed, clothed and offered the opportunity to return to duty on one of their country’s ships bound for Lisbon.
Not all, however, were so lucky. By the starboard scuppers, three men lay on stretchers, each covered by a blanket. Four other men sat alongside – their legs encased in strips of wood tied with twine and old rope.
Jonathon Whipple moved between them, taking care not to step on anyone’s hand or foot. He was satisfied he had done all he could for the men whilst they had been in his care and pleased he had not lost a single man. Now his patients would be placed into the hands of another surgeon.
Lifting his arm weakly from the stretcher, one of the wounded sailors grabbed the doctor’s leg and clung to it. He couldn’t speak English but the tears, glistening in his eyes, conveyed all he wanted to say.
From the side, Captain Quintrell watched the first boat as it was pushed off fro
m the frigate’s hull, the blades dripping as they dipped rhythmically into the salt water of the bay. Fully laden, the longboat sat low in the water and swam slowly. From the thwart facing the tiller, a young man, sitting between two of the rowers, rose to his feet and waved. He was promptly jerked back into his seat by the man sitting behind him but not before the captain had recognised the face. It belonged to a young sailor named José who he had encountered on the island where the tragic event had taken place. In response, the captain lifted his hat and silently wished him well.
In contrast to the orderly movement of the Portuguese seamen, where barely a word was spoken, the emergence of a handful of boisterous characters from the forward hatch created a noticeable disruption. In attempting to make the front of the queue and get down to the waiting boat, the newcomers pushed forward, elbows out, jabbing and jostling those waiting patiently in line. Several Portuguese sailors cried out, swore or levelled their fists at the intruders but it didn’t deter them. Because of the disturbance plus the fact these new arrivals were dressed in Royal Navy slops and each carried a bundle either under his arm or slung across his back, the midshipman at the entry port was alerted to their ruse.
‘You there! What’s your hurry?’ Mr Hanson called, pointing to the worst of the offenders. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re Murphy, aren’t you?’
He got no reply.
‘Stop right where you are and stand aside. No one is permitted to leave the ship without the captain’s permission.’
The tall man sneered cockily. ‘So what are these Portugee Jacks standing in line for? A ticket to Davey Jones’ locker?’ Taking no notice of the midshipman’s order, he pushed past anyone blocking his way. When he reached the gunnel he quickly swung one leg over the side, planted his foot on the top step and started his descent to the waiting boat. His mate, following close behind him, cocked his leg over the side and had his foot suspended in the air, almost touching the top step, when the middie grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back.