The Seventy-Four

by M. C. Muir

  ‘So be it,’ the Admiral said. ‘I will pass on your instruction and will arrange transport for the consignment and a guard to accompany it as soon as possible.’

  From the quarterdeck, Oliver bade the Port Admiral farewell and waited by the rail until his boat had pulled away. It was heading across Spithead towards the 74, no doubt to extend the same cordial greeting to Captain Liversedge and his crew.

  At midday, the French frigate was made ready to sail. Under the prize agent’s directions and with Simon Parry on the quarterdeck, Flambeau proceeded through Portsmouth Harbour’s narrow entrance and headed for the Gosport foreshore situated across from the naval dockyard. Once the ship was moored, the sailors who had manned her would be ferried back to Perpetual to collect their pay before being discharged. After a thorough examination by the agent, a decision as to the ship’s future would be made. Whether it would be refitted and renamed to serve as a British frigate or converted to a coal or prison hulk or sent to the breakers’ yard was yet to be decided.

  With the tide almost full, Perpetual entered Portsmouth harbour and was warped to the wharfside adjacent to the dry-dock having been assured that as soon as the dock was empty it would be given priority to enter. Oliver was amenable to the idea. The excessive time dallied in the tropics had profited him little but had encouraged the fine growth of green weed from keel to waterline, even though the hull was coppered.

  As it was, Oliver Quintrell’s mission and his commission had come to an end but he hoped their Lordships in Whitehall would soon have new orders for him. He had already expressed to his fellow officers his firm hope that he would be returned to Perpetual, but that decision would rest with the Sea Lords. In the meantime, he intended to spend time with his wife and relax in his home on the Isle of Wight. He had missed his walks and morning swims on the Bembridge beach and looked forward to standing on solid ground which did not sway beneath his feet.

  During that time, he would hope to hear news of the prize he had brought in and the sum it would return to be distributed accordingly between the officers and crew.

  On a more discordant note, it was very likely Captain Liversedge would face a formal inquiry regarding the events that had taken place aboard Stalwart. He had lost his ship, though subsequently regained it, and he had also lost many men. If the matter was brought to a trial or hearing, Oliver had committed himself to attending, either on board ship in Portsmouth or at the Admiralty in Whitehall. It was not only his duty to tender an account of the events that had taken place but, as a friend, he was anxious to support William Liversedge who had fought bravely against not one, but two enemies, and was now weighed down with the whole wretched affair.

  By four o’clock, the same afternoon, Perpetual was moored alongside the dockyard’s stone quay ahead of the 74 which was buzzing with activity. Piled high on the dockside were numerous sacks filled with putrid waste, the juices from them leaking in rivulets back into the harbour. Nearby were cartloads of barrel hoops and dozens of bundles of wooden staves sufficient to keep the coopers in work for quite some time. Several dray wagons and various carriages were lined up along the wharf adjacent to both ships.

  From Perpetual’s larboard rail, the captain along with Lieutenants Parry, Tully and Nightingale, watched as a man was escorted from the 74 and marched across the yard guarded by four marines. He was the Irish political prisoner who had been exiled from Britain. Having spoken with him briefly, Oliver had found him to be both polite and an excellent conversationalist. Though he was not an extremist, he had known both Robert Emmet – the leader of the ’98 rebellion, and Michael Dwyer – a soldier who had fought for the rebels against the British at Vinegar Hill, and still held their ideals and conviction in high regard. To be exiled was a lenient punishment when compared to that of Robert Emmet who, only two years previously had been sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered.

  Captain Liversedge had reported that the prisoner’s behaviour on board the 74 had been exemplary and, while the Irish rebels had released him for a time during the riot and put pressure on him to join their struggle, he had refused to be drawn into the conflict, argued against their course of action and attempted to mollify the men. Oliver wondered if this political exile would ever reach America or the Antipodes. He would probably never know.

  Doubtless, he would spend the next few nights locked up at the dockyard’s cells. Then, for convenience, he would be transferred to one of the prison hulks in the harbour, perhaps one which accommodated French prisoners. Oliver feared it could take months or years before a decision was made as to his future. Had he been a Frenchman, an end to the war would guarantee his release. But there was nothing anyone could say or do that would alter this man’s situation and, as time passed, he would be forgotten.

  Glancing along the quay, Oliver’s attention was taken by a group of seamen in whom he had placed his trust. Laughing and joking, they were in good spirits, as they tossed bags and sea chests onto a hand barrow. These were the men who had safeguarded the ship’s secret throughout its eventful and, at times, harrowing recent voyages.

  Amongst them was William Ethridge the young shipwright who had originally come from Lord Montagu’s private shipyard on the Beaulieu River. Oliver wondered if he would return to Buckler's Hard or would seek employment in the Royal Navy dockyard at Portsmouth. Or perhaps he would remain in the port and sign up on another cruise.

  Also standing with the group was Ekundayo, the broad-shouldered West Indian, whose shiny black head towered above his shipmates. And Bungs, the old cooper, whose voice could be heard above the others – the feisty old seadog whose mind was as sharp as a length of hoop-iron honed to a knifepoint on the grindstone. Sensing he was being observed, Bungs looked across to the ship and tossed a cheeky wink in the captain’s direction.

  Hintuition, Oliver thought and lifted his hat acknowledging the members of his crew. ‘Enjoy your time ashore, gentlemen. Be wary of the press gangs and keep a keen eye out for the broadsheets. As soon as Perpetual is refitted and ready to sail, notices will be posted.’ The group joined in three huzzas for the captain and all promised they would be back.

  Stepping gingerly from the ship, Mrs Crosby was helped onto the dockside by her husband. Mrs Pilkington followed with the doctor close behind her. Having already said their farewells on the ship, Mr Crosby shook hands with the doctor and embraced Connie Pilkington in the manner a man would embrace his sister-in-law or cousin, promising they would meet up again very shortly. Oliver thought it unlikely the carpenter would sign with him again but rather that he would gain employment in the dockyard so he could remain in Portsmouth with his wife. With the tools of his trade and bags already loaded on the back of a waiting gig, the couple were the first to be driven away.

  An ageing wagon pulled by an equally ageing draft horse, creaked under the weight of bags and boxes, jars and wooden chests – the property of Dr Whipple. Other cases, bottles and pieces of equipment were still being added. Mrs P and the boy, Charles Goodridge, who had accepted an offer to travel into town with him, had very few possessions.

  Stepping from the frigate, Oliver strolled across the yard to where the group was standing. After greeting them politely and wishing them well, he drew the doctor aside.

  ‘I am sorry to farewell you, Jonathon. Please remember: there will always be a place for you as ship’s surgeon should you wish to join me on my next command.’

  ‘Thank you, Oliver. For the moment, I am undecided as to my future. I have things to attend to in London but, aside from that, I intend to take rooms in Portsmouth. I believe a naval town, in times of war, will appreciate the services of a well-practised surgeon.’

  ‘Indeed it will,’ Oliver said, glancing across to Consuela Pilkington and Charles Goodridge. ‘And what of the widow and the boy?’ he added.

  The doctor smiled as he spoke. ‘Mrs Pilkington is also undecided as to her future. Her wish is to return to Gibraltar but I have advised her against that. It would be best to wait until the co
lony is fully recovered. There is always a chance the malignant fever could return, as it has done in the past. In the interim, I have asked if she would consider accepting a position as housekeeper in the rooms I propose to rent. I have offered to pay her a wage which will provide her with a degree of independence. If she so wishes it.’

  ‘And the boy?’

  ‘She asked if I could offer accommodation to Charles also. She assured me he would make himself useful and work for his keep.’

  ‘And your answer?’

  ‘I agreed, of course.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear that,’ Oliver said. ‘And you must continue to hone your skill in stick fighting. It strikes me as a rather antiquated and sometimes barbaric form of fighting but I have witnessed how very effective it is.’

  ‘Less barbaric than wielding a sabre, I think. But, yes, I will continue and I intend to teach the boy. That will give me a deal of satisfaction. Also, it is my intention to hire a tutor or enrol him in school. I have not yet broached this with Connie, but I think she will support the idea. As you know, he is a rather precocious lad and very bright.’

  Oliver smiled. ‘Might I suggest the naval college and, if the lad’s taste for the sea remains constant, I insist it should be encouraged.’ Oliver lowered his voice. ‘Dr Whipple, kindly do me the honour of permitting me to support this young man. I would like to sponsor his education – school fees and other incidentals.’

  ‘That is very generous, Oliver,’ the doctor said. ‘But I have heard you speak vehemently on the evils of privilege and patronage?’

  ‘That is true. However, I will make an exception in this case. I trust my contribution can be made in a confidential manner.’

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘As you know, I have no son to follow me to sea and I would take pleasure in following Charles’s development.’

  ‘But why this lad? Surely you have nephews or young cousins?’

  ‘There is no question in my mind as to why I should choose this boy. Without Charles Goodridge, we would not have arrived in Portsmouth with a fine French prize for which every man aboard will be entitled to a share, including your good self. Without Charles, it is unlikely Captain Liversedge would have command of the 74 and without Charles’s bravery our freedom and indeed our very lives may well have been forfeited.

  ‘Young Charles proved he has courage and ingenuity beyond his years. If he continues to study and learns well, I will further sponsor him aboard a post ship as a midshipman. Say nothing of this to the lad but keep me advised of his progress.’

  As they were speaking, the pair’s attention was drawn to an angry outcry. Perched atop the wagon Charles Goodridge was busily rearranging the position of the doctor’s more precious items, much to the aggravation of the driver who had placed them there. Turning his head to the two gentlemen now watching him, Charles Goodridge waved in the happy-go-lucky manner of any ten-year-old.

  Standing nearby, Consuela Pilkington smiled at the boy’s antics, her dark Iberian eyes flashing in the spring sunshine. For a fleeting moment she reminded Captain Quintrell of Susannah but he did not allow the memory to linger.

  Extending his hand to the doctor, Oliver bade him farewell. ‘I wish you and your party good health and good fortune. I am sure we will meet again before very long.’

  ‘We will indeed, Captain. Thank you for everything. Godspeed.’

  With the doctor and his party departed and most of the crew paid off, Oliver returned to the ship but had no intention of remaining aboard longer than necessary.

  With no pressing engagements, Mr Parry had agreed to remain in Portsmouth where he would be able to follow Perpetual’s progress in the dockyard. Oliver hoped a new commission would follow very quickly and that he could return to the frigate that had been his home for almost a year.

  Returning to the quarterdeck, he was alerted by the rumble of wheels of two large wagons, each drawn by a pair of black Shire horses as they moved slowly away from the dockside. Securely lashed to each wagon were two large barrels bearing no specific markings and apparently of no significance apart from the fact they were accompanied by a guard of marines walking on either side. Having watched them being removed from the ship’s hold, Oliver Quintrell was familiar with the consignment.

  ‘What will become of the contents?’ the sailing master enquired.

  ‘I doubt they will remain in Portsmouth. I reckon they will be sent to London when a suitable mode of transport becomes available.’

  ‘I understand the Irish rebels found nothing of value in the barrels they smashed aboard Stalwart? So what was packed in those barrels you sent to the 74 when we were in Guanabara Bay?’

  ‘Cases of copper, iron and wrought nails – courtesy of Mr Crosby, and packed into the barrels by Bungs himself. I believe the weight was about equal to that of the cases of silver coins.’ He grinned. ‘Image the frustration of the Irishmen when they frantically smashed the barrels in the 74’s hold. They were searching for something that was not there.’

  ‘And the silver was aboard Perpetual throughout the voyage?’

  ‘Indeed – it never moved an inch from its original location.’

  * * *

  Other books by M.C. Muir

  Under Admiralty Orders-The Oliver Quintrell Series:

  Book 1 – Floating Gold

  Book 2 – The Tainted Prize

  Book 3 – Admiralty Orders

  Book 4 – The Unfortunate Isles

  The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy (Books 1-3 Box set)

  Books by Margaret Muir

  Sea Dust

  Through Glass Eyes

  The Black Thread

  The Condor’s Feather

  Yorkshire Grit (Box set)

  Words on a Crumpled page (Poetry)

  Uncanny (Short stories)

  Goats (non-fiction)

  King Richard and the Mountain Goat (Young adult)

  Children’s stories

  Acknowledgements

  Finally, I wish to extend thanks to my editor, Matthew Keeler for his professional editorial services. This is the first occasion that we have worked together but I trust it will not be the last. Thanks also to Roger Marsh, maritime writer and journalist who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of ships of the Napoleonic era and also provided constructive criticism.

  As always, I appreciate the feedback offered by beta readers: J. Everett, L.C. Collison, Malcolm Mendey, R. Frankcombe and N. Warner-O’Neill.

  And last but not least to my son for setting up my web page.

  For more on M.C. Muir aka Margaret Muir:

  www.margaretmuirauthor.com