by M. C. Muir
While a pile of broken chairs, tossed into one corner, was the only measure taken to clear the debris, that effort failed to hide proof of the violent confrontation that had occurred. The elegant drapes, ripped from the casements lay in tatters while goose down, spilled from a slashed cushion, decorated the floor like flakes of snow. The carpet was still sticky with blood.
Trying hard not to be distracted, Oliver expressed a warm greeting. He was genuinely pleased to be reunited with his friend. With refreshments already prepared and waiting on the table, Oliver was grateful to accept a drink and invited his friend to relate his story in his own time.
Stalwart’s captain said it had been hard to control his emotions at the relief he felt when he heard Perpetual together with Flambeau had been sighted. ‘How did you manage to come up on us in this vast ocean?’
‘Floating bodies,’ Oliver relied bluntly. ‘You left a trail.’
‘I did not know,’ Captain Liversedge said. ‘I am sorry.’
‘It seems much has happened aboard the 74 since we spoke several weeks ago.’
William Liversedge shook his head several times as if trying to deny the things that had happened or attempting to dispel the raffle of distasteful images cluttering his brain. ‘So many dead,’ he said, speaking to himself. ‘As you can see, there are many still awaiting burial.’
Oliver knew those matters should be attended to without delay but first he had to uncover the problem. ‘I learned that your ship had been taken and am relieved to find that you have now regained control.’
The third rate’s captain nodded but showed no sign of elation.
‘You must have taken prisoners? Where are they?’ Oliver asked.
‘In the hold.’
Oliver thought of the French sailors who had been held in Flambeau’s hold. ‘I trust they are secure and under guard,’ he said.
‘I believe so.’ But the voice lacked conviction.
Oliver poured another glass of wine for himself and one for his friend. ‘Can you tell me what led to this assault? I wish to be of assistance.’
After a long sigh, Captain Liversedge began. ‘Two days ago, my crew, who had been confined below decks by a group of evil mutineers, rioted. I was told later that my men were not being fed and were desperate to escape. On discovering an axe and handspike buried in the ballast, they broke open barrels of water, biscuits, beef and potatoes and, being half-starved, ate ravenously till many were sick. Then they helped themselves to wine, beer and spirits and gorged themselves until they were raving drunk. In this state of inebriation, a group of them smashed the hatch cover, despite being fired on by the French soldiers guarding them. Several died from musket shots and others were injured, but before the soldiers could reload and reinforcements arrived, the mob burst through to the orlop deck. From there they spilled along the companionways, climbed to the gun decks and headed for the forecastle and quarterdeck. It was not only their freedom they wanted, but they were desperate for fresh air after having been deprived of it for several weeks.’
Sitting across the table, Oliver remained silent.
‘Moving en masse from one deck to the next, the crew set upon anyone in their path irrespective of whether they were English, Irish or French. Only Moncousu’s sailors, in their quaint nautical garb, were easy to identify.
‘Though unarmed, I understand my men fought as if they were deranged – punching, kicking, gouging and biting anyone who obstructed their path. As they progressed through the ship, they collected whatever items they could to use as weapons – handspikes, boathooks, screws, rammers, pawls and belaying pins. And when they reached the armoury, they added pistols, muskets, hangers and cutlasses to their arsenal.’
‘Where were you at this time?’ Oliver asked.
‘I was locked in a cabin in the midshipmen’s quarters, separated from my officers. I had lost track of how long I was there. With no light, save for a faint glimmer spilling through the cracks around the door, I never knew if it was night or day and with my feet and arms pinioned, I was incapable of doing anything.’
‘Did you hear the ruckus taking place?’ Oliver enquired.
‘I heard a commotion,’ Liversedge said, ‘but I did not know where it was coming from or what it meant. At first, I feared my ship was under attack. I am ashamed I did not free myself before this terrible incident took place. Only when my men released me and I came out on deck did I witness the full extent of the mutiny.’ He paused and sighed heavily. ‘It was the most ungodly conflict imaginable.
‘The fighting was hand to hand and brutal. Amongst those fighting, one of the first people I recognised was Captain Moncousu. He was being restrained by some of my men. I was told he had surrendered his sword but his own men either didn’t see or didn’t care. They neither lowered their weapons nor ceased fighting. There was no shortage of those wanting to fight. Heads continued to pop up from the waist and hatches and, as each sailor stepped onto the deck, he was hit, kicked or stuck with whatever implement was on hand without any enquiry being made as to his identity or allegiance. The men crawled over each other like animals with cutlass blades flashing in the sun above their heads. When arteries were severed, blood spurted as freely as water from a drinking fountain. The deck was a charnel house with bodies covering every square inch. So many bodies.’ He sighed. ‘As the ship pitched and heeled, they rolled on the deck like seals in the shallows on a South American beach. It was hard to walk in any direction without stepping on some limb or head, be it attached to a body or not. The scuppers flowed red with blood and the sea beneath bloomed crimson. It was terrible.’
‘You and your men must have fought bravely,’ Oliver offered.
‘I cannot remember who I fought or how many. Having exhausted the pistol I'd been given, I brought it down on a Frenchman’s skull before flinging it over the side. I recollect gripping a dirk in my left hand and hearing the constant clang of metal on metal. I still hear it ringing in my ears. I was without my sword, but without rules or mutual respect, it was no place for swordplay. Yet, I vividly recollect swinging a cutlass blindly about me not knowing if it was friend or foe I was making contact with. At one point, I raised my right arm to protect my face and at the same time thrust the point of the knife into the belly of a man leaning over me. For a second, his expression changed as I pushed him from me. He looked puzzled, but he didn’t fall and kept on fighting with the hilt protruding from him.’
‘But your men succeeded in extinguishing the riot.’
‘Eventually,’ Captain Liversedge said. ‘With my officers beside me, we forced the mob to the rails where some scrambled over frantically and jumped into the sea. Others were pushed overboard with blood spurting from their wounds. Several fell backwards over the rail into the waist. I remember the sound of dull thuds when their bodies hit the gun deck. They never returned.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘When we gained the upper hand, we started driving them back. Then, all of a sudden, the remaining Frenchmen and the irate Irish insurgents turned about and dived for the hatches. We followed them down from one deck to another, lunging at them all the time, clambering over dead and dying victims in the companionways, pushing them deeper into the ship until there was nowhere for them to go apart from the hold.’
‘Where your men had previously been held?’
‘Indeed. They had no alternative. Soon after, the stragglers were rounded up and pushed in with them also. Gratings were laid over the hatches to replace the covers that had been broken and a strong guard was placed on the hold.’
‘You turned the tables completely. Well done.’
‘But at what cost?’ William sighed. ‘How pleased I am to see you. Once again I am in your debt. You can be assured the Admiralty will hear of this.’
Oliver brushed off the comment. ‘Now is the time to address the present situation. You have bodies that are long overdue for burial. The sun is taking a dire toll. They must be disposed of urgently.’
‘I know that,’ William said. ‘But h
ow can those sailors be identified? How can I give them all a Christian burial?’
‘Permit me to advise you. In times of war, when fighting is most intense, bodies are cast overboard without a second thought. What occurred here on Stalwart was a battle.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I suggest you assemble your men forthwith. Read the burial rights over the dead and then dispose of the bodies into the sea? You cannot afford time to bury each man with the regular ritual.’
‘I suppose it must be done that way.’
‘It must,’ Oliver said. ‘We are three or four days’ sailing from Ushant and the entrance to the Channel. You cannot leave the dead on deck any longer. Those carcases are already leaking and I guarantee the stench from them will precede you, and your ship will not be welcome in any port. If you delay casting the corpses adrift, the beaches of England and France will be littered with rotting corpses for weeks. My advice is to dispose of them now and let the sea do what it does best.’
Captain Liversedge admitted he had been remiss in not attending to the dead earlier. ‘I will give the order right away. Will you stay for the service?’
Oliver agreed, though he had no desire to witness another burial service especially with so many corpses. But, with the anguish and exhaustion of the incident resting heavily on the shoulders of his fellow captain, he was conscious his support was needed.
‘When that matter has been attended to,’ Oliver said, ‘I will return to Perpetual and will escort you to Spithead.’
William Liversedge thanked him and, after splashing water across his face and drying his hands, the pair repaired to the quarterdeck.
‘There is one thing I can relieve you of,’ Oliver said. ‘The two women you accommodated for me. I trust all the women aboard survived.’
‘They did, but there was also the boy. I have been told he has not been seen for some time. What has become of him is uncertain. It is possible he fell overboard and drowned.’
Oliver smiled. ‘The boy is safe and well. But what of the Irishman who led this insurrection. His name was Joseph Murphy. Where is he now?’
William Liversedge pointed up into the rigging. ‘I was not familiar with any names, but if you look to the starboard main yardarm you will see three ropes’ ends dangling. I was told the French captain had no intention of sailing to Ireland though he had given his word to the rebels. A week ago Moncousu, claimed sole control of the 74 and had three of the ringleaders strung up. It was a cruel half-hanging with the noose not tight enough to strangle the men immediately. I did not witness this but was told the trio hung and kicked and moaned till late into the night when they eventually succumbed. Ironically, that is an Irish practice, I believe. Apparently, Captain Moncousu found the whole exercise amusing.’
‘Only three men?’ Oliver queried. ‘Originally there were five.’
Captain Liversedge nodded. ‘Perhaps the other two are amongst the bodies on the deck.’
‘And where did Moncousu intend to take this ship?’
‘Brest, I believe.’
‘Hoping to run the gauntlet of the British blockade.’
‘Perhaps he intended to fly the British jack until he was in the harbour.’
‘He was an ambitious man,’ Captain Liversedge said.
‘A misguided fool, in my eyes. And what of his bold plans now?’ Oliver asked. ‘Where is he?’
William Liversedge cast his eyes down to the planks. ‘The captain’s blood is decorating the deck. He got what he deserved. At the height of the riot, Moncousu escaped yet again and was yelling and screaming at his men to attack and retake the ship. He threatened to string up anyone who opposed him. By this time, however, everyone had had enough of the fighting, deceit, anger and uncertainty and, though I did not witness it, he was rushed by an incensed group of men – of what nationality I do not know. He was murdered where we stand and his body hacked to shreds. His remains were not a pretty sight and were thrown overboard even before the fighting ended.’
‘You have suffered much, William. I feel responsible for bringing this trouble to you.’
‘You are not responsible, Oliver,’ Captain Liversedge said and forthwith excused himself to make the necessary preparations to conduct the burial service.
With the canvas covering removed from the pile of carcases, and a few additional bodies dragged up from below, the corpses, trailing blood, body fluids and, in some cases, entrails were dragged to the entry port and lined up alongside each other.
At the bosun’s prompting, the assembled company removed their hats and stood in silence on the heaving deck. The burial service was duly read committing all the bodies to the sea. Without further ado, each victim was placed onto a wooden hatch cover and the flag was briefly draped over it. Each one remained there only for the time it took for the timber to be inclined and the body to plunge over the side. Lacking canvas shrouds and cannon balls, the manner in which they were consigned to the deep was one of convenience, speed and necessity. Despite some of the victims being French, others Irish, others British, and many being Catholic and others Protestant, no distinctions were made.
With heads bowed, the ship’s company maintained that attitude throughout the service. While the now-familiar fetid stench was tolerated by the 74’s crew, the sailors serving under Oliver Quintrell’s command were physically sickened by it. Like whalers whose hands stank constantly of blubber, those men given the unenviable task of dragging the bodies to the side would find the vile smell impregnated their skin and would stay with them for days.
From start to finish, the service took over an hour and as soon as the bodies and body parts had been cleared away, buckets of sea water were hauled up and washed across the deck. A concoction of lye and ash from the galley-fire was then sprinkled along the planks to help remove the worst of the stains. After that, a division of sailors attacked the deck with bristle brushes and swabs.
It was with much relief when the formalities were concluded and Oliver Quintrell and his officers were able to climb down the ship’s side to the boats and return to the frigate. The hour was late, but having moved into the higher northern latitudes, it was not dark when the boats bumped up alongside Perpetual. Apart from the captain and some of his officers, the boat carried Mrs Pilkington and Mrs Crosby. A canvas chair was quickly rigged to whip the women onto the deck.
Their arrival prompted a spontaneously warm welcome, Connie Pilkington being almost bowled off her feet when Charles Goodridge ran up and threw his arms around her waist. Her eyes immediately clouded with tears. Having been told he was feared drowned, she was overjoyed to see him.
Dr Whipple, standing nearby, waited politely to offer his good wishes. Taking the young woman’s hand and holding it between his own, there was much he wanted to say but he barely had sufficient time to express his joy and relief at finding her well and restored once more to Perpetual. After a brief exchange, he was obliged to follow his medicine chest, bag and some personal dunnage down the steps to the waiting boat to be transferred to the third rate. His presence had been requested to assist the ship’s surgeon in administering to the many injured and dying sailors who were overflowing the 74’s cockpit.
CHAPTER 20
The 74’s Hold
Having slept a full watch of four hours and eaten a cooked breakfast, Oliver came on deck feeling refreshed. Despite the many questions he still had for Captain Liversedge, he decided those matters could wait until they dropped anchor in Spithead.
‘Mr Tully, double the lookout, if you please. I expect we will encounter some merchantmen when we enter the chops, not to mention ships of the Channel Fleet and Frenchies from Boulogne or Le Havre.’
‘Aye aye, Capt’n.’
A fair wind filled the sails of all three vessels and the plaintive cry of seagulls wheeling above the mastheads heralded the fact they were closing on the coast.
On deck, Mrs Pilkington stood alongside Charles Goodridge, her hand resting on his shoulder. Beside her was Mrs Crosby and her husband – the ship’
s carpenter who had been returned from Flambeau after several weeks of absence. Oliver was pleased to see the family and friends reunited. He regretted that Mr Parry was not able to join him on the quarterdeck. His lieutenant’s command of the French frigate would not end until it was handed over to the prize agent in Spithead.
While contemplating the set of the sails and noting the occasional luff of the royal, the captain’s attention was suddenly alerted by the muffled sound of musket fire. He glanced to Mr Tully, standing by the binnacle. He had also heard the noise. It was not of one shot but several and they came from the direction of the 74. Although the ship was sailing slightly ahead of the two frigates, heads could be seen scuttling along Stalwart’s deck and disappearing into the waist or down through the hatches.
‘What in Heaven’s name is happening now?’ Oliver cried.
As he spoke, the 74’s mainsail was clewed up, the topsail yard braced around and the ship slowed to a stop.
‘All hands on deck!’ Oliver ordered. ‘Luff up!’ A similar order was relayed by Lieutenant Parry on Flambeau.
Within minutes, the two frigates closed on the 74. When Perpetual drifted to within pistol shot, Captain Quintrell hailed the deck.
A seaman replied with the aid of a speaking trumpet. ‘The prisoners in the hold have gone crazy,’ he announced. ‘Captain Liversedge needs help.’
The thought again flashed through Oliver’s mind that this could be a ploy to lure him and his men aboard in order for Perpetual to be taken. But on seeing Lieutenant Hazzlewood, the man who had served with him as a middie, hovering by the gangway, he was reassured. Cupping his hands, he shouted across the water: ‘Inform Captain Liversedge I intend to come aboard. I will bring men and marines and provide whatever assistance is required.’
The 74’s lieutenant acknowledged and immediately disappeared from view.
In the time it took to lower two of Perpetual’s boats, Captain Quintrell and a dozen of his men armed themselves with pistols and cutlasses. A dozen marines were assembled along the deck their muskets already primed and bayonets fixed. The boats had hardly touched the water before the contingent clambered down and filled the thwarts. With spray splashing over the bows and the boats being tossed by the waves, it was not an easy pull for the rowers or a comfortable transfer for those aboard.