The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘You ain't seen a sea when it’s really rolling.’

  ‘Them yard ladders sway and bend when you go up them especially when you’re carrying a stack of timber on your shoulder.’

  ‘Well, if you’re keen, you’re bound to get your chance afore long, but most landsmen I’ve known won’t even try.’

  Will smiled. He liked the carpenter.

  ‘With all these ships being built in your village, didn’t you ever want to go to sea?’

  ‘Never thought about it. Never wanted to leave my family. And Buckler’s Hard is a good yard.’

  ‘There’s word around that since the war ended there’ll be scarce demand for line-of-battle ships. They say they’ll be breaking the old ones up for timber to build merchant ships. Some folk say many of the dockyards in England will close and the shipwrights and carpenters will be out of a job.’

  ‘There’ll always be work on the Beaulieu River. In the old days they made plenty of merchant ships. Been building them there for a hundred years.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of work here, too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’

  ‘From now on when you’re down here you can call me Chips or Dickie Bird – that’s the name I cop from them what knows me. My real name’s Percy Sparrow and they say I chirp like a sparrow. It don’t rightly bother me what they call me so long as they leave me alone in my workshop.’ He blew a cloud of sawdust from the bench. ‘But mind – you must give me my full handle when we’re on deck cos I’ve got a warrant. That means I’m an officer of sorts. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘It’s Will. William Ethridge and thank you for letting me come down here.’

  ‘Aye well, you don’t need to thank me ’cause I’m just looking after myself. I’d be a fool to say no to a good hand. It’ll make my job a bit easier. As for yourself, don’t count your chickens just yet. Bide your time and your tongue and you’ll do all right.’

  As the carpenter spoke he swung a length of solid timber up onto the bench. His right forearm was as thick as a leg of lamb and the muscles twitched and flexed like those of a sheep that’d just had its throat cut.

  ‘You don’t often get what you ask for on his Majesty’s ships. Not unless it’s for the good of the ship. Sometimes you’ve got to use your noggin and ask in such a way the officers think it’s their idea. Then they pass it on and if all’s well, they get the credit for it. Of course if problems arise, then Billy Muggins here cops it – you hear what I’m saying?’

  Will nodded.

  ‘But you’ll be all right. Mr Parry’s a reasonable man, though there’s a few tales about him being bandied round the ship – but best you don’t take much notice of those. Anyway, that’s enough of my chit-chat. Tell me more about that boat of yours.’

  ‘It’s the first one I’ve made on my own. Helped my grandfather make a few. He made a boat every year out of chips.’

  ‘The off-cuts from the yard?’

  ‘Yes. The shipwrights are allowed to take what they want. My grandfather has enough timber in the garden to build a brig of his own.’ Will laughed. ‘He jokes about it but the pile is twice as big as me.’

  ‘So how come you found yourself floating round The Solent.’

  ‘I wanted to swell the timbers but I never secured it on the bank and it slipped into the river. When I managed to get to it, I’d no oars, no rudder and no shirt.’

  ‘And no way of getting back to land?’

  ‘If I hadn’t drifted right up to the ship, I’d have been in the middle of the English Channel by now.’

  ‘And if you’d survived you’d have been washed up on the coast of France and they might have eaten you for breakfast.’

  ‘If only I’d taken more care.’

  ‘No point crying over spilt milk. Tell me, can you hone a blade?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I can put a razor-sharp edge on any tool. Too sharp sometimes,’ he said, thinking back to the blade on his grandfather’s adze.

  ‘Right then. You go see Bungs, the cooper, and ask for a length of hoop from an old barrel. He’s got plenty of pieces cut down to size. Grab one and come in here and grind it. Then you make yourself a nice wooden hilt and bind it with cord and you’ll have yourself a handy knife. You’ll need one before long. The stone’s over there in the corner, I don’t mind if you come in here to use it – but only when I’m here mind.’

  From the doorway came the muffled but unmistakeable sound of eight bells being struck. Almost instantly, it was followed by the clatter of feet on the deck above.

  ‘Best get up top, quick smart, lad. It don’t pay to dilly-dally.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mr Parry I’ve spoken to you.’

  The carpenter didn’t look up. He was swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the plane as it hissed along the length of timber.

  Chapter 8

  Madeira

  Sunrise saw the first of the fleet arriving off the island of Madeira but it would be early in the evening before the last of the convoy dropped anchor.

  Even before the flagship and some of the merchant vessels anchored in Funchal Roadstead, local vendors selling fruits and fish were attracted to the vessels like pins to a magnet. Anxious to sell their wares, craft of all shapes and sizes ferried between the ships, dipping beneath the cables and bumping against the hulls. Because of their number, they hindered the lowering of ships’ boats and were a constant source of annoyance especially to the navy ships.

  Elusive was moored to the south-west of the bay in the lee of a formidable cliff which rose vertically from the water to two hundred feet. From the cliff top, the ground rose under a covering of lush green forest to the bare summit. The peak of the worn volcano was crowned in a halo-like ring of cloud.

  From every ship, empty barrels were being lowered to the decks of waiting transports and though only a nominal quantity of water had been used during the voyage from Portsmouth, the captains opted to take on fresh water while it was available.

  ‘Mr Parry, have a boat ready, if you please. And arrange for this letter to be delivered to the flagship. I pray the commodore will oblige me and allow us to sail before the rest of the fleet. I have no desire to idle our time away waiting for seventy ships to be watered. In the mean time, I intend to spend a little time in the town. Please send a boat for me at four o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Beg pardon sir, but the men asked if they were permitted to go ashore.’

  To get drunk, thought Oliver. However, an opportunity for the men, particularly the Constantines, to work off a little pent-up emotion was not a bad idea. Rather they brawl on shore than on deck.

  ‘Providing all the fresh supplies are received and stowed, you may allow those not on harbour watch to have a few hours ashore. I will leave the numbers to your discretion but make sure every man knows when he must return to the ship.’

  The streets of Madeira were packed – not with the regular traffic of children, nuns and beggars; local hawkers carting their wares on scrawny donkeys; or carts clattering down the rocky tracks, but with a conflagration of hot-blooded, shabbily dressed, vile smelling seamen of all nationalities who filled the taverns or obstructed the narrow alleys.

  With no carriages available from the shore, Oliver resorted to the local mode of conveyance – a mule. It was a large animal, tall as a horse, bony and with a rough coat dusted with lice. It was the only mode of transport capable of carrying him to the top of the steep hillside.

  The route was circuitous. In some places the ravines and valleys cut by the heavy rains dropped almost vertically and the tracks, though well used, were wet and slippery. To a man who preferred to climb to the top of a lively swaying mast than venture up the steep sloping sides of a mountain, they appeared quite hazardous.

  After almost an hour’s uncomfortable ride, he arrived at the house and, as he had imagined, she was standing in the courtyard waiting for him. Draped over one shoulder, her long black hair shone like polished jet in the mid-day sun and was reflected
in the colour of her eyes.

  ‘I watched you winding up the hill,’ Susanna said, holding out her hands to greet him. ‘Welcome.’

  Quintrell took her hands and placed a kiss on her finger tips. ‘I am relieved you received my letter. I feared it may not arrive before I reached here.’

  ‘I received it two days ago. Oh, Oliver, what joy it brought me. I had thought I would never see you again.’

  ‘Didn’t I promise I would come back one day?’

  ‘Come inside, out of the heat.’

  Leading him by the hand through the portico, they stopped for a moment to allow a lizard to waddle across the marble paving. It sought shelter beneath the tangled roots of a pendulous creeper. The air was warm and moist, filled with a soft exotic fragrance.

  Unbuckling his sword, he laid it quietly on the hall table and followed her inside. The room was cool, the open windows capturing the breezes blown off the sea.

  ‘I watched for the ships all day yesterday but none arrived, then when I woke this morning the harbour was bursting with them. But there were so many and I did not know which you were on, and as the hours passed I feared that you would not come. And now you are here, I must ask when you will sail.’

  ‘Tomorrow, possibly or the following day.’

  ‘And will you stay here this evening?’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Oh, Oliver.’

  The maid appeared with a tray carrying a jug of lemonade and two glasses.

  ‘Thank you, Isabella.’

  She waited until the girl had gone. ‘You have aged a little,’ Susanna said, running her fingers gently across his temple.

  ‘It has been a long time.’

  ‘And I suppose you have changed over the years.’

  ‘In some ways. A little wiser, I hope; older certainly and with the responsibilities which youth did not encumber me with.’

  ‘Do you ever visit Cornwall these days?’

  ‘Only occasionally from the sea. I doubt I have walked little further ashore than the wharves in Plymouth since we said goodbye.’

  ‘I trust your life is happy.’

  ‘Content enough. Better now that I have a command. Better still that I am here with you.’

  She looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then sit, relax and drink,’ she said softly, helping him to remove his coat.

  The sofa, upholstered in ivory brocade was elegant and typically English in style though the other furnishings in the room had a distinct Iberian flavour. He sank back into the soft cushioning.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Hungry for you, Susanna. If only you knew.’

  Standing before him, she lifted the remnant of his right hand, stroked it with her fingers and placed it against her lips.

  He could see the tears glinting in her eyes and feel fullness in his own.

  ‘I am hungry also,’ she said.

  ‘Permission denied!’ he repeated, waving the despatch just delivered by the launch from the flag admiral’s ship. ‘Permission denied to sail before this combined fleet is ready to depart! Good heavens, that could be days from now! Weeks even, the way these lubbers are conducting their business! It will take a veritable Pied Piper to clear the maritime rats from the streets of Funchal!’

  ‘Then I suppose you’ve little option but to wait, Capt’n,’ Casson said, flicking the invisible crumbs from the table cloth with a napkin.

  Oliver reflected. Of course, the commodore was correct in his decision and he had no right to such an outburst especially in front of his steward. He must bide his time and his temper and wait with the convoy. That was probably the safest course of action. But to be a naval nursemaid required patience and Oliver was running short of his share. After considering the options he consoled himself with the fact that a few days lost in Funchal would matter little to his mission. Beating out of the Channel could have taken a month, but it didn’t. And the Lords in their wisdom had no doubt made allowances for those sorts of contingencies when formulating his orders.

  So be it. If the frigate had to remain in Madeira for a week or more, then he would make the best of his time. In the morning he would return to the white house on the hill.

  ‘Signal from the flagship, Captain: Prepare to sail.’

  Quintrell gazed across the merchant fleet. It was a dismal sight. With no breeze to disperse it, smoke from almost one hundred galley chimneys hung at yardarm height around the ships. To the west unassailable grey cliffs rose perpendicular from the sea, while around the port, stone walls and fortifications protected the old town. Morning mist shrouded the mountain tops extending damp fingers of cloud down the steep contours of the gorges and tree-lined valleys. Behind the town the foothills rose sharply; the scattered red-clay rooftops appearing and disappearing in the swirling pockets of vapour drifting like columns of smoke from the verdant valleys.

  From the deck, Oliver couldn’t see her house but he knew where it was and he knew Susanna would be at the window. He remembered her as he had left her, standing alone in the courtyard, the red flower which he had plucked from the garden, in her hair; a butterfly fluttering around her head before settling on the sun dial; the sun glistening on the smooth mounds of her shoulders; the smooth curve of her waist. He remembered the fragrance of the island. Her scent. He knew he would have to see her on his return – whenever that may be.

  ‘The barometer is dropping rapidly, Captain.’

  ‘That is quite evident without you having to inform me, Mr Parry,’ he said, instantly regretting the sharpness in his tone. He was becoming impatient waiting for the sound of the signal gun; waiting for the puff of smoke prompting the ships to vacate the harbour and sail out like a swarm of faithful drones following the queen bee to a new location.

  ‘The wind was ideal yesterday,’ he said, ‘yet look at it now.’

  It was a long day, hotter and more humid than was usual in September even at that latitude and it was not until the middle of the forenoon watch that the ominous grey clouds started forming, replacing the mist which had veiled the island’s peaks. As soon as the first wind was felt, the gun boomed from the flagship. It was accompanied by the shrilling of whistles, calls from the decks, the squeal of hemp and the crack of parchment-dry canvas as it was loosed from the yards.

  ‘Take her out, Mr Parry.’

  ‘With pleasure, Captain.’

  It seemed as though he had hardly closed his eyes when a knock came at the door.

  ‘Mr Nightingale sends his respects, Captain. Says the wind is dropping and requests your presence on deck.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Wood I shall be on deck directly.’

  As soon as he swung his legs from his cot, Oliver knew that the frigate was sailing well. The buffeting it had received through the night had finally settled.

  For more than four hours the storm had raged out of control. It wasn’t rain that had thundered down onto the decks, but an outpouring from above as if the bung on the bath waters of heaven had been removed. There were no single drops in the downpour just solid sheets of water cutting visibility to no more than a few yards.

  At the time, all hands had been summoned and the ship had maintained its blind bearing under double reefed topsails; the captain unwilling to spill the air from his sail, tack or wear ship for fear of being rammed from the stern by another ship. His hope was that the rest of the fleet would take similar action. Later, with the storm easing slightly and twenty miles of sea behind them, Oliver took to his bed confident that in the morning he would be able to relocate the scattered fleet. Ironically, since the storm had broken he had adopted a sense of responsibility towards the merchantmen.

  It was four thirty when he came on deck.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘Morning, Captain. Mr Parry said I was to call you if the wind changed. She’s dropped since I came on watch. And still
easing.’

  The wind was from the north-west – a light breeze. During the last hour the rain had stopped and the night clouds were fast disolving. The barometer, like the sun, was showing signs of rising. In the western sky some stars were faintly visible, while to the east the horizon was preparing to greet a new day.

  ‘Any sign of the Indiamen, Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then we shall go about and endeavour to locate them.’

  ‘Aye aye, Capt’n.’ The young midshipman’s voice carried well. ‘Prepare to wear ship!’ The starboard watch who had had little time to sleep were nevertheless quick to respond to the call.

  In less than fifteen minutes the frigate encountered the first of the merchant vessels. She was a big three-masted East Indiaman, considerably larger than the frigate, under full sail and heading south. Passing Elusive within hailing distance, the master of the Indiaman said he did not know the whereabouts of the other vessels but he intended to maintain his course due south. Captain Quintrell requested he hove to until the fleet was able to reassemble. At first it appeared his instruction was going unheeded, then, with little warning, the merchant ship slowly began to wear around. To the north and north-west a trickle of ships maintaining a similar course poked up from the horizon and it was not long before the royals and topsails of the navy vessels appeared. Within minutes hundreds of billowing sails, resembling patches of morning cloud, were scudding along the rim of the world; while in the east, great golden spokes fanned across the sky like the helm of an ethereal ship which had risen from the seabed.