The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Deck there! Wreckage in the water, two points to larboard.’

  ‘Luff up, helmsman!’

  ‘One of the merchantmen, do you think, Captain?’

  ‘More than likely.’

  The sea was littered with floating debris: wooden plates, stools, buckets and barrels. Pieces of wreckage were scattered over half a mile of ocean.

  ‘Longboat, sir. Dead ahead. Six men aboard.’

  ‘I bet they're pleased to see us,’ Mr Mundy said, with a degree of jubilation.

  Oliver, however, wasn’t sure he wanted the added encumbrance of shipwrecked sailors, especially merchant mariners and more especially if they were of foreign origin. ‘Bring her about and hove to, if you please.’

  ‘Shall we lower a boat, sir?’

  ‘Those men look quite capable of rowing to us. Mr Nightingale, attend to them when they come aboard. Food, drink and dry clothes for every man, and add their names to the book. I will speak with them later.’

  Half an hour later, the master’s mate who had been rescued from the stricken ship, related the events of the previous night.

  ‘The rain was so bad you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face and the first we knew we were in strife was when this sloop came up behind us and hit us. Must have been doing close to ten knots. Snapped our rudder clean off and stove a gaping hole in our stern. Fortunately the damage was above the water line and we were not taking water. Then within minutes another one hit us broadside on. You would think he was trying to board us. Trouble is he hooked his anchor deep in our fo’c’sle. For a while it was sheer madness on deck. We turned round and round like a sycamore seed in the wind. The captain tried everything he could but we couldn’t break free. We were all locked together and certain of a watery grave till the men on the sloop cut their forestay. The sloop lost its mast but at least it got off.

  ‘The brig, however, which was near as big as this frigate, was still hooked on and tried to haul her anchor out of our bow. I yelled for them to cut their cable but the captain thought he knew better. He gave the cable some slack and let his ship fall off, then once it was free, instead of cutting the damned thing he had the men on the capstan hauling it in.’ The man shook his head. ‘Damn imbecile saved his pick but opened us up right down to the hawse hole. Peeled off the top strake like the skin off a lemon and splintered her down to the waterline. We were taking water as soon as she pulled free.’

  ‘Did the brig heave to and offer assistance?’ Captain Quintrell asked.

  The seaman shook his head. ‘She didn’t hang around but in that rain we wouldn’t have been able to see her even if she’s been within hailing distance.’

  ‘So when did your ship sink?’

  ‘A couple of hours before the sun came up. The men manned the pumps all night till one got blocked, but when the water in the hold reached chest height, we knew we couldn’t save her.’

  ‘How many on board? And what of the rest of the crew?’

  ‘Fifty fit men aboard.’ He sighed. ‘Three boats got off before she went down, but when she rolled she tore out one of her stays. It catapulted across the longboat and sliced through it like a wire through a chunk of cheese. Went down as quick as you please. A dozen men in it, if not more. We pulled two of them out, but not quick enough. They’d swallowed too much water. I don’t know where the third boat is. She kept her distance. As for the other men…?’

  ‘Hopefully they’ll be picked up by another ship. In the mean time, Mr Hazzlewood will introduce you to the purser. You will be issued with hammocks and dry clothes. We are well supplied with slops – almost sufficient to outfit another crew.’

  ‘More names in the muster book, Captain,’ Mr Parry reported quietly, as the men shuffled from the deck.

  ‘At this rate we may have our complement of two hundred and fifty souls before we reach the Equator! Have the men keep a lookout for that other boat. It could still be afloat. I shall go below and write up this incident in the log. The deck is yours, Mr Parry.’

  The first lieutenant touched his hat. ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

  In the mess, the rescued sailors congregated at one of the tables anxious to eat their fill but unwilling to be interrogated about their experiences. However, despite an uncomfortable mood simmering, Smithers was not to be deterred and took a strange delight in persisting with his questions.

  ‘Where were you heading?’ he urged. ‘What were you carrying?’

  ‘West Indies,’ one replied reluctantly. ‘With a cargo of oak and elm.’

  Smithers laughed. ‘You should have floated with all that timber on board.’

  The sailors found nothing amusing in his remark and ignoring Smithers, one of the bedraggled seamen enquired if Elusive was bound for the Caribbean?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know,’ Froyle replied. ‘The captain’s not letting on. One thing's for sure we’ve got ample stores – enough for a long voyage – and plenty of space in the hold. And because we’ve got lots of extra slops, I reckon we’re heading for Africa to pick up a load of slaves. Take them to Jamaica or maybe Rio. That’s what I think.’

  Smithers continued pestering. ‘What’s your name then?’ he said, peering at the man in the corner whose head was shrouded under a blanket.

  He got no reply.

  ‘Too much trouble to open your gob, is it? Perhaps we should chuck you back into the ocean. The fish know how to open their mouths.’

  ‘Stow it, Smithers!’ Froyle growled, while some of the men sidled away.

  ‘His name’s Guthrie,’ the old tar said. ‘And he’s Bigalow.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘Kent.’

  ‘You’d have been Deal lightermen?’ said Froyle.

  ‘Until the Press took us in ninety-four,’ Guthrie growled. ‘Blast their eyes!’

  ‘Hey! There’s no swearing on a navy ship. Not very grateful, is he?’

  ‘You shut your face, before I shut it for you! I didn’t ask to be brought on board. I swear I’d rather drown than serve in His Majesty’s Navy.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind your tongue, you’ll find yourself hanging from the end of a yard arm,’ added Smithers.

  Guthrie lunged forward grabbing for Smithers’ throat across the table.

  ‘Enough,’ Froyle shouted, turning to see if any of the midshipmen had heard the conversation. ‘Let the man alone. He’s just lost his ship.’

  ‘Don’t bother me,’ Guthrie mumbled, as he sat back. ‘It’s not the first wreck I’ve witnessed and it won’t be the last, you mark my words.’

  ‘Aye, I bet you saw your share of wrecks in the Downs,’ said Foss.

  Smithers couldn’t resist another quip. ‘And scavenged from a few that ran foul of the Goodwin Sands?’

  ‘Maybe, I have,’ Guthrie replied sharply. ‘But there’s many a sailor been glad to see my boat and thanked me for saving him from a watery grave. But there’s them ungrateful dogs who never said a word.’

  ‘Don’t take no heed of him,’ the old man said. ‘I know what it’s like when a ship goes down. Fear does strange things to a man’s brain. I’ve seen a sailor drown his best mate by hanging off his head like it was a barrel. And I’ve known men drown because they had to dive back into the ship to retrieve a trinket, or a bottle of brandy, or some such trivia, but they never came up again. I’ve seen men so frozen with fear you had to chop their fingers off the mast to get them free of the ship before she went under.’ A shiver ran down his spine. ‘Few men survive a night clinging to a mast, but them as do, I’ve seen them let go just as a rescue boat got near. Seems when the spirit runs out so does life with it.’

  Smithers laughed. ‘Sailors on merchant ships are weak as piss. Navy men is different.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft, you old fool.’

  ‘Your mate’s right,’ the Kent man said. ‘The currents have no respect for a uniform. I remember a ship that ran aground on the Goodwins about a year ago. Blown on, she was, as the tide was dropping. Found hersel
f stuck solid, men clinging to her masts poking up from the sea. Hanging like scarecrows in a corn field, they were. Grown men crying like babies. Not a trace of the vessel to be seen the following day. Every last inch of her sucked into the sand. Navy ship, she was. I heard later her captain was court martialled for losing her.’

  ‘What was his name?’ Froyle asked.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Chapter 9

  Tittle-tattle

  ‘Deck there!’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Sail off the starboard beam. Looks like a frigate.’

  Oliver Quintrell glanced around the fleet. He knew the position of the convoy’s two other escort frigates. They were some distance off to the west.’

  ‘Is she alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What bearing?’

  ‘Due south.’

  ‘I wonder what she’s up to. Keep an eye on her Mr Parry.’

  ‘Aye aye.’

  As the lookouts continued scanning the sea for merchant ships or flotsam, another call came. ‘Frigate heading towards us, larboard beam!’

  All eyes turned to the approaching ship.

  ‘Is that not the same ship we saw two days ago?’

  ‘Indeed. What do you make of her?’

  ‘Corvette or frigate. Nice lines and obviously very fast. God damn her for not showing her colours!’

  ‘She’s opening her gun ports.’

  ‘All hands, Mr Parry. Beat to quarters.’

  The roll of drums brought everyman to his station. Sailors spilled onto the deck from all parts of the ship and in less than ten minutes the deck was transformed. Every unnecessary item was hurried below, portable obstacles and the bulkheads quickly and efficiently removed. With the order to run out the guns, the ports were heaved open, heavy breeching ropes unlashed and the guns were trucked into position. The deck was abuzz with half-naked men armed with rammers, sponges, wad-hooks and hand-spikes. The fireman hurried along the deck weighed down with heavy sand scuttles while young boys, whose voices twanged with the chords of a virgin’s throat, skittered about distributing bags of powder. The smell of the slow-match, burning in the match-tub, incensed the air.

  ‘Shall I give the order to fire, sir?’

  ‘No. Hold your fire! Surely this ship did not intend to take on the whole fleet single handed! I wish I knew what she was up to?’

  Oliver scanned the sea. A least a dozen merchant vessels were within two mile’s distance including one of the larger Indiamen. Unfortunately there was no sign of the other naval vessels. Since leaving

  St Helens Road it had been an impossible task to keep the fleet closed up, despite regular signals from the flagship ordering them to do so. The fleet was now scattered far and wide which was a major frustration to the naval escort. Nothing would have given Oliver greater pleasure than to take on this anonymous frigate. Their broadside poundage was approximately equal but he knew his English gun crews’ timing would be faster than that of a foreign crew. He could easily outsmart the enemy, of that he was certain. But if he committed himself to stand and fight he would be countermanding his orders from the Admiralty. On the other hand he could not afford to be ill prepared if an attack was launched against his ship.

  ‘Masthead!’ he called. ‘Can you see the flagship?’

  ‘Just coming over the horizon, sir.’

  ‘Mr Nightingale, run up a signal: strange sail approaching. Get the helm over and bring us close up with those other vessels. Helmsman, bring us to the lee of that big Indiaman. I’m sure that mongrel will think twice about being peppered by our combined guns.’

  ‘Perhaps if we put a round over her bow, sir.’

  ‘When I want your advice, Mr Parry, I will ask for it.

  The midshipmen on watch looked at each other.

  ‘Aren’t we meant to protect the squadron instead of hiding behind its skirts?’

  Fortunately Mr Mollard’s whispered remark coincided with the rumble of the carronade’s wooden wheels and neither the captain nor the first lieutenant heard the subversive comment. But the young midshipman’s question was overheard by the man on the helm and a seaman standing by the mizzen sheet.

  ‘Enemy frigate, closing. Do we fire, sir?’

  ‘Not until I give the order! I want to see what she has in mind.’

  With a group of ten merchant ships in close proximity, and with brigs and cutters having at least a dozen guns each, Oliver thought it unlikely that a lone frigate would challenge their combined cannon fire. With the sight of the flagship on the horizon, his assumption was soon confirmed. The unidentified frigate immediately altered course and headed away.

  Cheers echoed from the gunports.

  ‘She’s changing tack. Do we go after her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think she will be back, Captain?’ Mr Mundy asked.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, but I wager if she does come back, she won’t be alone. Get two men in the main-top throughout the night. They must be extra vigilant. My orders are to get this vessel to its destination in one piece and I intend to comply.’

  ‘Did you see the way the captain had the ship sneaking in behind that big fellow? Like he was hiding or scared to fight.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, Smithers! Plenty of men been hung for calling their captain a coward.’

  It didn’t worry the sailor leaning against the cap rail. After coercing three of the topmen to hand over their grog ration, he was buoyed for an argument whatever the subject matter. ‘Do you think when his hand was blown off, it took away his taste for battle?’

  ‘Stow it, Smithers!’ said Frank Foss, knocking the ash from his pipe into his palm.

  ‘I reckon he was scared. Instead of turning tail he could have chased that ship off and raked his stern with a couple of broadsides. Captain Bransfield wouldn’t have hid like a girl. He’d have given him what for. Wouldn’t have mattered what flag he was flying. I don’t give much credit to a captain who won’t fight.’

  ‘You should take care what you’re insinuating.’

  ‘Ain’t insinuating nothing, I’m just saying I’m wondering if we’ve got a coward for a captain.’

  ‘Your tongue will be the death of you. That kind of talk will guarantee you a place on the yardarm,’ added Wotton

  ‘And I’ll find a nice piece of rope to go with it!’ said Foss.

  ‘What would you know? You can’t even read, can you? You listen to what I’m saying, I know them Articles of War better than any high and mighty Lords at the Admiralty. And I bet none of them ever served before the mast. Peace treaty or no peace treaty, I say it’s a sign of weakness if a captain don’t stand to and fight.’ He smirked. ‘Typical of his sort. I know a bit about our Captain Quintrell. Comes from Cornish stock, he does. I’m always suspicious of them who come from there. Devious sorts they are with their false lights and thieving ways.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Smithers. There’s more than a score of men on board who come from Plymouth way and I’m sure they’ll be happy to cut your throat if you call them smugglers.’

  The sailor shrugged his shoulders, leaned back and yawned.

  ‘What else you heard about the capt’n then?’ Foss asked.

  ‘I heard he lost his mind. Blithering idiot he was they say, fit only for an asylum. They sent him up to Greenwich expecting he’d spend the rest of his days there. That’s why he had no command for over a year. Don’t know how he got out but I bet he bribed the Admiralty to give him this ship. How lucky are we?’

  ‘I ain't listening to more of this talk,’ said Wotton, ‘What you trying to do, stir up the men? Incite mutiny, that’s what it’s called in those Articles you say you know so well. Well I have no problems with the captain. In fact I think we are pretty lucky. I’ve served under a darn sight worse. I suggest you keep your mutinous thoughts to yourself and stop blabbing your mouth off. There’s only one imbecile on this ship, Smithers, and that’s you!’

  Smit
hers’ arm swung at the captain’s coxswain’s chin but the sudden heel of the ship sent the punch wide. With his weight following his fist, Smithers fell forward to the amusement of the other sailors on deck.

  ‘I’ll get you, Wotton. And your stupid mate too.’

  The officer of the watch approached. He hadn’t seen the fight but had heard the raised voices by the pin-rail. ‘What’s going on here? You arguing again, Smithers?’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, Mr Tully, sir.’

  ‘You’re drunk then.’

  ‘Not me, Mr Tully. Only drank me regular ration.’

  ‘Then pick yourself up off the deck. One more peep out of you and your name’ll be in the book.’

  Smithers sneered, before replying: ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Though not as tall as the sailor, Mr Tully stood his ground. He not only disliked Smithers but he was wary of him. Having served before the mast and learned his seamanship the hard way, Midshipman Ben Tully had seen it all before. Seen scores of men bound up at the gratings. Been there himself a few times and bore the scars of the cat across his back to prove it. He’d seen traitors whipped around the fleet. Heard stories of the old days when pirates were hung and their corpses left to rot by the Thames’ steps for all to see. He was prepared to give most men chance to vent their anger, but he also knew where to draw the line.

  Men like Smithers had to be watched. They could never be trusted. Something about them set them apart. Something in their eyes. The toss of the head. The swagger. The tone of voice or turn of phrase. They were the sorts of men you never turned your back to on a dark night or climbed the main mast with if you were alone. Smithers filled the bill.

  ‘You tidy yourself up!’

  ‘Aye aye, Mr Tully, sir.’ Smithers raised his knuckles as he spoke, but as soon as the midshipman’s back was turned, he dropped his hand, cursed quietly and spat on the deck.

  Returning to the companionway, the midshipman overheard the mumbled profanity as clearly as he had heard the splat of saliva. Unlike many men who had served on a gundeck, his hearing was acute and the sailor hadn’t realised he had been listening to his conversation for quite some time.