by M. C. Muir
‘What cock-and-bull story are you telling him now?’ Eku asked, flicking his wrist at the boy. ‘Move over,’ he said.
‘Where’s Will?’ Bungs asked.
Eku studied the cooper’s face. ‘Is your brain double-reefed again? He’s helping Mr Crosby again. The Frog ship might be sailing, but there’s still plenty of repair work to be done.’
Leaning forward till he was little more than a few inches from the Negro’s face, Bungs growled. ‘There’s nowt wrong with my brain. Never was. Never will be.’
Eku leaned back but the rant continued. ‘The boy’s saying nothing, but I reckon you know something and you’re not letting on. You was over there and I heard you went down into the French ship’s hold to parley with the prisoners.’
‘Aye, but only because I can speak their language,’ Eku said, ‘and the captain ordered me to do that.’
‘You edging for special favours, are you?’ Bungs said with a sly grin.
‘Don’t be daft,’ the Negro said.
‘So tell me, who did you speak to and what did you learn?’
Eku lowered his voice. ‘I weren’t sent down for idle talk. I was sent to tell the prisoners they were to be put ashore on the island.’
Bungs kept digging. ‘Aye, but you must have had a yarn while you was with them Frogs.’
Eku glanced over his shoulder to the next table where Smithers and his mates were sharing a joke. ‘Between you and me and the lad here, I spoke with one of the sailors. He wasn’t black like me, but he was dark-skinned. A mulatto. He said he was a steward on the French ship and served the officers – delivered their meals, washed their clothes, polished their shoes – you know. He said he’d been at sea for ten years. Told me he’d grown up on a plantation in the Indies and run away to sea when he was a lad – like me.’
‘Rats arse!’ Bungs hissed. ‘Tell me something I want to hear. I’m not interested in how many times he took a piss.’
Eku continued unperturbed. ‘He was happy to talk and asked about Stalwart and Perpetual and where we were bound.’
‘Crafty sod. Spying he was.’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ Eku argued. ‘You should have seen his face when I told him that he and his mates were to be put ashore on that French island. At first he thought I was jesting.’
‘More than them Froggies deserved, I reckon. I could have told the captain what to do with them.’
‘I’m sure you could,’ Eku replied.
‘So did he say what had happened aboard the third rate and how they’d managed to steal the 74 from Captain Liversedge?’
‘He did, and I told Mr Hanson and asked him to pass word to Captain Quintrell.’
‘And?’ Bungs said.
‘He said it wasn’t important now the 74 had sailed away.’
The old man growled. ‘Some of them middies are idiots, I tell you. What would he know? Now you tell me what you found out, and I’ll decide if it’s important or not.’
Eku glanced around the mess again. He didn’t want his story being overhead and spread around the ship. Juicy tales spread faster than rats running round the railings. ‘It wasn’t the French responsible for the 74 being taken. It was the Irish.’
‘What?’
‘Shh! You heard me right. Remember them Irish lubbers that demanded to be paid off in Rio – five of them, there were. Well, after picking up their pay and bits of dunnage and leaving Perpetual, the very next day they signed to serve on the third rate. And, once on board, they wasted no time in spreading word among the hands that they were going to take the ship to Ireland and launch a new rebellion against the British.’
Bungs laughed. ‘The crew must have thought them barmy.’
‘Perhaps some did. But not all. Within a few days of boarding they had taken down names of every loyal Irishman aboard. By all accounts there were hundreds of Irishmen aboard Stalwart who had signed a year ago in Cork.’
‘Hogwash!’
‘It’s true as I sit here. Not only did they get their names, but they had them swear a hand-written oath pledging loyalty to Ireland. I don’t know what they were promised in return.’
‘Same as what the French wanted – liberty, equality, fraternity.’
‘That’s right. That is what the French sailor said.’
‘What was the name of the rebel rouser?’
‘Murphy. Joseph Murphy.’
‘Scab,’ Bungs cursed then bethought himself. ‘It’s a mighty big step up from spewing your voice box on deck to taking a 74. How could that be? I’d heard it was the French captain who’d taken the ship.’
‘I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m telling it like it was told to me. He said Moncousu – the captain – was placed in a cabin on the 74. Because he had surrendered his sword he was not treated like a prisoner. But he did have a couple of marines keeping an eye on him. Only problem was – the guards were Irishmen and Captain Liversedge didn’t know that. It was the guards that let Murphy talk with the French Captain.’
‘And?’
‘And the story is that the Irish rebel offered the French captain command of the warship with a crew of two hundred Irish-born sailors, on condition he sailed the ship to Ireland. Stands to reason – Moncousu wasn’t going to turn his back on a valuable prize offered on a silver plate. He agreed.’
‘But what of all the regular hands and the marines?’ Bungs said. ‘How did the Irish rebels win the support of so many of the crew?’
‘With the promise that everyman who supported them would receive a large reward when the ship arrived off the Irish coast – a purse full of silver coins. What poor sailor can afford to ignore that?’
‘Did they say where the money was coming from?’
Eku shrugged his shoulder? ‘The Frenchman didn’t know, but with a fortune dangled before them they were easily bought over. Plus, the rebels were quick to remind their mates of the atrocities the British had done in Ireland in the past. Many of the men had memories of those times and many had lost loved ones so it was not hard to gain their support.’
Bungs said nothing. His eyes were wide. His mouth hanging half-open.
Eku continued. ‘After the armoury was broken into, that’s when Captain Liversedge was taken prisoner along with his officers. If they hadn’t surrendered and done what he said, Captain Moncousu was going to string the captain and his officers up from the yardarm. That was what I was told.’
‘It sounds like Captain Liversedge gave up his ship without a fight?’
‘The French sailor said there was some fighting. Those that hadn’t sworn allegiance were threatened with being tossed overboard or having their throats cut. The threats were real.’
‘That’s a lot of men to take on,’ Bungs said. ‘Near on two hundred, I would say. Why didn’t we hear a ruckus?’
‘I don’t know. The French steward said some bodies had been thrown over the side so there must have been some fighting when the mutineers forced the rest of the 74’s crew below decks. They were herded into the hold and the hatch covers were battened and locked.’
‘Perhaps it was when we were practising the guns.’ Bungs looked away, as if disinterested then peered up and down the length of the deck. Mr Tully, having just descended from the hatch, was inspecting the mess to check all was well.
‘Hey, Tully,’ Bungs yelled. ‘Lend us your ear for a tick?’ He chuckled as he added, ‘It best be your good ear.’
The lieutenant frowned. ‘Mr Tully to you, if you don’t mind. What’s the matter, Bungs?’ Striding down the mess between the swinging tables, the lieutenant replied, ‘I haven’t got time for your tittle-tattle.’
‘It’s not my title-tattle this time,’ the cooper said adamantly. ‘Eku, here, has a bit of tasty gossip which I’m certain the captain will want to chew on.’
The lieutenant regarded the Negro. ‘Is that right, Eku?’
The Negro shrugged. ‘If Bungs says so, I guess it must be.’
Mr Tully knew the cooper well enough to trust hi
s judgement.
‘On your feet, sailor. Let’s do it now while the captain’s not too busy.’
In the great cabin, Oliver Quintrell listened intently while the seaman repeated the details be had shared with the cooper. Though the eventual outcome of what had happened came as no surprise, the captain was grateful to be supplied with the full picture of how command of the 74 had been taken from its captain.
‘This situation is diabolical,’ Oliver said. ‘A disaster.’ He sat for a moment digesting the information.
‘Is there anything else you have not told me?’
Eku swore he had related all he could remember.
‘But it makes no sense, from what you say. The Irishman has the most supporters yet Captain Moncousu appears to have sole command. Why is he not sharing it with Murphy?’
‘That’s easy,’ the West Indian replied. ‘Murphy is a landsman and doesn’t know how to sail a ship. The Irishman needed the French captain to take command and navigate.’
‘Thank you, Eku. That information is indeed most helpful. Now I know the size of the enemy force, the distribution of men and where their loyalties lie. That knowledge will be imperative when I confront the 74 next time. In the meantime, return to your watch.’
Bending his head and shoulders to the doorframe, Eku departed leaving the captain in a quandary. Although he was able to mull over the makeup of the ship’s complement aboard the third rate, there was nothing he could do for the present. Because of the time spent discharging the prisoners to La Désirade and subsequently allowing two days for the carpenters to complete the rudder and other necessary repairs to Flambeau, the 74 now had several sailing days’ advantage over him. That, however, was not a major concern. In prime condition both frigates were capable of making good speed. They were fast, sleek, well-coppered and relatively weed-free. The 74, on the other hand was an older ship with a bulbous hull and although her bottom was copper-sheathed she wore a green petticoat beneath her waterline. The weeks spent idling in Guanabara Bay had contributed to that. Aside from that, her masts and spars were thick and heavy and, even though she could boast an enormous press of sail, Oliver was confident the man-of-war could not outrun the frigates in a chase.
The challenge now was to locate the 74 in the North Atlantic and that was the sort of challenge Oliver Quintrell enjoyed.
A few hours later, the captain sat down at the dining table in his cabin and rolled out a chart of the North Atlantic Ocean. With the help of his sailing master, he intended to chart the course they would expect the 74 to take if it was heading for Brest.
‘It’s a big stretch of ocean out there,’ the sailing master said.
‘Indeed, but it narrows as we near the Scillies and we’ll catch them long before that, you mark my words.’
‘Aye, but that 74 will make good speed now he doesn’t have the Frog in tow,’ Mr Mundy remonstrated.
‘But think on this Perpetual and Flambeau can make better time than that cumbersome man-o’-war and with an unruly mob of disgruntled Irishmen on deck and an ungrateful French captain in command, anything might happen between now and then.’
‘What if they changed tack and headed for Jamaica after all?’
‘Mr Mundy, I know their general heading and am confident we will find them,’ Oliver replied. In his opinion, Captain Moncousu would not head for Ireland even though he had agreed to do so. And Murphy, being no sailor, would be totally unaware from the navigational charts what their true position or charted course was.
For once, the sailing master did not dispute that likelihood. ‘Wait till they get close to Europe. Let’s see what happens then.’
Having split the Perpetuals between two ships, Oliver’s immediate concern was the shortage of men. It was of little consolation to him that the third rate was also limited in its crew numbers. But the fact remained that most of the seamen serving on the 74 were Irishmen and the others Frenchmen who did not speak or understand English. Oliver wondered what sort of atmosphere existed on the gun decks where the two distinct groups were thrown together.
An interesting situation, he thought.
Armed with the information he had received from Ekundayo, Captain Quintrell considered the sailors belonging to his own command who had Irish blood. He wanted to know the mentality of seamen who could possibly be disloyal at heart. He needed to know how rational they were, how their minds worked and what drove them. He had been at sea in various capacities since his youth and had served alongside Irish, Scots and Welsh men, as well as Dutchmen, Norwegians and even some Frenchmen as equals, but had never been confronted with a situation such as this.
He decided to speak with the ship’s surgeon again and, despite Mr Parry’s warning to tread carefully, there were questions he needed answering and Jonathon Whipple was the only one he could ask.
When Oliver confronted the doctor again in the cockpit, there was a palpable air of tension when the subject of Ireland was broached. ‘I seek your help, Jonathon. I need to know how you rate the Irishmen currently aboard Perpetual. Are they any different to the rest of the crew?’
The doctor considered his answer before speaking. ‘In my opinion, the Irishmen aboard Perpetual are no different to their countrymen serving on other ships in His Majesty’s Navy. And, I believe, Irishmen make up the biggest proportion of sailors in most ships’ crews.’
‘That is possibly correct,’ Oliver admitted. ‘The Irish are well represented in all ranks. But of all the common sailors you have encountered, how do you find them?’ Oliver asked.
‘Most are lively, good humoured, prone to cheekiness and to taking the Word of the Lord in vain. Otherwise they are not dissimilar to the rest of the crew. But, let me remind you, when sailors are called into action and stand side-by-side against the enemy, it matters not how they speak or where they come from. Their blood is the same colour when spilled on the deck.’
‘But you observe them through a physician’s eye, not that of a fighting captain.’
Jonathon searched for his answer. ‘Serving on any navy ship – and I have served on three – I see men with disfiguring scars, others with patches over empty eye sockets. I see men who tap about the deck on turned wooden legs, annoying those trying to sleep on the deck below, and I see those who cannot count to ten due to the loss of fingers on each hand. Yet they climb aloft, or haul on a line, or man the capstan or windlass and no one stops to enquire if they are Irish or English, or whalers or Deal longshoremen.’
The captain gave a slight nod of the head as he rubbed his finger and thumb together – the only full digits remaining on his damaged right hand.
Dr Whipple continued. ‘I have treated more seamen for boils, rashes and the flux than from injuries resulting from sea battles. And more men die aboard ship from common illnesses than from wounds received fighting the enemy.’ He sighed. ‘In time, those wounds heal and scars fade and the fighting is forgotten but for the men of Irish heritage it is different. The wounds and the scars they suffered defending their cause run deep and never heal.’
Oliver was puzzled. ‘Please explain.’
Jonathon’s face screwed, as if with pain. ‘Seven years ago, in Ireland, many suffered from hardship and were subjected to torture and inhuman treatment. It was the time they learned to dodge bullets from the redcoats’ muskets, and side-step pikes thrust by the militiamen. They were made to witness their homes and villages being put to the torch. Many saw their families locked behind barred doors and heard the heart-rending screams of women and children as thatched roofs were set alight and the buildings engulfed in flames. Besides watching their families burned alive, many were obliged to draw a bloodied pike from the body of a son or brother in order to defend themselves. They did not hear the rush of air escaping from the victim’s lungs but the gurgling dying cry for liberty.
‘The sounds and sights of such events are embedded in the soul of every Irishman who ever fought or witnessed the atrocities of the ’98 rebellion. It is those indelible images that
have forged such a strong bond between them. It is the reason many have reasserted their sworn oaths as brothers over the years. Those men will never submit or surrender to British rule. Despite the passing of years and the semblance of peace between Britain and Ireland, the spirit and zeal of the United Irishmen will smoulder like a slowmatch and they will strive for independence no matter how long it takes.’
A moan from one of the cots swinging lazily to the Atlantic’s swell reminded both men of their present situation. The doctor quickly checked on his patient before returning to the conversation.
Though uneasy, and treading carefully, the captain addressed the captain’s next question. ‘Would Irishmen aboard a naval vessel regard you differently because they know you are Irish born? Would they hold you in high esteem? Would they question your allegiance?’
‘As you are doing now?’ the doctor asked directly.
Oliver did not respond.
Jonathon continued. ‘You asked earlier about the five men who left the ship in Rio. They never once visited the cockpit. But working in my capacity as surgeon on a British ship, it would not surprise me if they presumed my loyalty was to the Crown.’
‘As a warranted naval physician on one of His Majesty’s ships, surely that must be the case,’ Oliver said.
Mr Whipple’s face gave no indication as to a commitment one way or the other.
Aware of the intrusive nature of his questions and the doctor’s reticence to furnish a direct reply, Oliver refrained from pursuing that line of inquiry. The little he knew of the doctor’s early life, he had learned when he first joined Perpetual in Portsmouth. At the time, however, there was something in the doctor’s appearance which had struck him as rather strange. His hair was cropped close to his head in the fashion worn by revolutionary Frenchmen. But the short cropped coiffure was also that of Irish rebel farmers – the Croppies. Oliver wondered if the doctor’s family had been actively involved in the 1798 uprising or in the years of upheaval preceding it.
Was the doctor a revolutionary? Oliver asked himself. He doubted it. Was the doctor sympathetic to the Irish rebels? He did not know.