The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Then according to your argument, every man aboard must feel this certain allegiance, as you put it?’

  ‘Indeed, Captain.’

  Quintrell sniffed. ‘When the occasion arises that you have command of a ship, Mr Parry, then it will be up to you what behaviour you condone between the ship’s officers and her men. As my first lieutenant, I remind you that there are Articles which dictate what behaviour is acceptable and what is regarded as insubordinate. You would do well to refresh yourself with all the Articles of War. They apply to everyone serving on one of His Majesty’s vessels, including you and me.’

  ‘I shall do that,’ Simon Parry said obediently.

  ‘Let me further remind you that this ship is under my command and I advise you against encouraging any form of familiarity with any man of inferior rank irrespective of whether he is your brother or son. It is too easy to bend the spectrum of strict discipline, but should it be broken not only does the officer put himself at risk, but he places the rest of the crew and indeed the ship itself in jeopardy.

  ‘Unlike a uniformed officer, these seamen may look motley in their potted garb, but do not be deceived by their appearance. Believe me there are quick brains and even quicker tongues amongst them. One taste of vulnerability and they will suck on it like honey from a spoon. Do I make myself clear, Mr Parry?’

  ‘Indeed, Captain. It will not happen again.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear that.’

  Mr Nightingale entered the wind direction on the log-board.

  The fifteenth degree of latitude was the parting of the waves for the fleet; the day the fleet of merchant ships and naval squadrons divided into two parts; the day Elusive excused herself from any further obligations to the flagship.

  From the deck, the officers witnessed the series of signals exchanged between the navy ships culminating in a final gun salute. Of the fleet, more than half were bound for the West Indies and from the current latitude they were ideally positioned to catch the trade winds which would carry them to the islands of the Caribbean Sea. Sailing with them was the 100-gun triple-decker flying the commodore’s flag, also one of the 64s and a frigate.

  Crossing the mid-Atlantic, through the idyllic latitudes of the tropics, posed few problems, but for the large heavily-laden Indiamen bound for the West Indies two forms of danger faced them as they neared their destination: first, attack by pirates or rebels; second, from the sudden vagaries of the weather. Late summer was the season for hurricane force winds and tropical lows which, in the blinking of an eye, could turn ideal sailing conditions into a recipe for disaster. Although it was October, the seasonal danger was not over.

  The remaining thirty ships were heading south-west to pick up the westerlies and bear east around the Cape of Good Hope. Accompanying them was a frigate and the second 64-gun third-rate with its supercargo of diplomats and chests of gold necessary to refurbish the Ceylon station. For this group, danger lurked on all quarters. Apart from the possibility of pirate attack, the fickle winds and currents of the southern African coast could not be trusted. The consequences of being becalmed, compounded by the intolerable heat, was a lethal combination, yet any attempt to make an unscheduled landfall to replenish water was fraught with its own dangers – attack by hostile natives, or the legacy of death from fevers contracted on the disease-ridden African coast. But despite the obvious hazards, the guarantee of reaping rich rewards from the spice trade was a temptation the greedy city merchants and trading companies could not resist.

  For several hours, knots of white sails dotted the distant sea, as Elusive headed on her new course, bearing west-south-west. One by one, as the day wore, the sails of the merchant ships disappeared, slipping beneath the hazy dome of the horizon leaving Elusive alone on an empty ocean.

  For the next five days the winds blew favourably but on the following morning there was hardly a breath of breeze. As dawn broke, the first rays of sunlight bathed her sails in gold and, as if weighed down under a layer of gilt, the canvas hung heavily.

  ‘I trust this is not a foretaste of what is to come, Mr Mundy,’ Oliver said.

  Every seaman on board who had previously sailed for South America was familiar with the problems of being becalmed. Delays in the Doldrums could last for days, even weeks. Yet Captain Quintrell was acutely aware of his instructions. He had been told he must suffer no delays. That fact had been reinforced in the sealed orders that he had opened when they crossed the 15th degree of latitude, north of the equator.

  The contents of the vellum pouch marked with the word SECRET had provided him with details of his final destination – but with little else. The information which he had read and re-read several times raised more questions than it answered, and for that reason he had no intention of sharing the new orders with his officers, not even his first lieutenant. At this stage, all he was prepared to reveal was the course – a south-westerly bearing which would carry them to the coast of South America.

  Fortunately with the light conditions, the crew were kept busy. In an attempt to catch every fleeting zephyr, the crew were forever adjusting sails. No sooner had the yards had been braced around than the breeze would change again, as if intent on indulging them in some fickle game.

  For a time, life on deck had been pleasant, but when the winds failed completely, the heat bore down oppressively. With every exertion the seamen dripped with sweat. Their hands slipped on ropes, lines and standing rigging. Melted pitch oozed from the cracks between the deck planks blistering bare feet. Men cried out when their hands accidentally touched on scorching metal plates and fittings. Even the wooden deck-lockers were too hot to sit on.

  Two days of lazy sailing brought the frigate across the equator. It being Sunday, the crew was assembled and Captain Quintrell chose a Psalm as a suitable reading before leading the men in the Lord’s Prayer. The reading which followed was from the Admiralty’s Articles of War.

  Before the men were dismissed Oliver gave permission for them to perform the maritime rituals which crossing the line demanded. Hopefully the morning’s light-hearted ceremony would serve to improve the sailors’ spirits. If nothing else, it would provide a break from the present boredom. With not a breath of air on the flaccid sails, it was unnecessary for the ship to come about. Elusive was sitting perfectly still on the glassy sea.

  There were few candidates on this cruise to be presented to King Neptune. Three midshipmen, (which should have been four, but Mr Mollard was conveniently confined to the cock-pit), a couple of lads who had fought at the Nile but never sailed south of the Tropic of Cancer and young William Ethridge, acting carpenter’s mate. Every man who had sailed round the Cape of Good Hope on the Constantine automatically qualified for an exemption.

  With preparations duly completed and a canopy erected over the deck, the court of King Neptune was called and acknowledged by the cheers and jeers of the whole crew gathered on the deck.

  One by one the reluctant victims were obliged to pay homage to the maritime ruler, and to his decidedly unfeminine wife – Smithers – draped in a sac-cloth skirt and decked in a wig of dried seaweed. In turn, each novice was force-fed a foul-smelling concoction created in the galley; the resulting retching and facial contortions from the recipients produced howls of raucous laughter from the crew.

  Finally, daubed with a mixture of tar and paint and dusted with flour and feathers, the subjects were poked and prodded by Neptune’s long tormentor, then shoved through an invasive corridor of hands to emerge in an unrecognisable state at the gunnels. From there they were unceremoniously tossed overboard to be cleansed by the sea.

  Will Ethridge was the fourth to hit the water but, being a strong swimmer, he surfaced quickly and paddled back to the rope ladder, smiling. The Honourable Mr Smith came next while Mr Wood was last in line.

  In trying to resist the inevitable dunking, Wood slipped on the wet deck but there was no escape. Grabbed by the wrists and ankles, he was dragged to the rail. Below
, in the shimmering water, a pod of porpoises serpentined along the surface passing within a few yards of the ship. Their timely attendance was hailed with approval by the members of King Neptune’s court.

  ‘I can’t swim!’ Pud Wood yelled, as he was flung over the side. But his cry only encouraged the enthusiastic crowd.

  ‘You’ll soon learn,’ a lone voice shouted.

  The midshipman, being the heaviest candidate, created the greatest splash. For a while he bobbed on the surface, coughed and spluttered, flailed his arms, then sank. The sailors watched and waited. The jeering continued. Someone reached for a rope but before the line could be tossed to him, the water bloomed red.

  Silence. Then the chubby painted face appeared again but only for a second. The alarmed eyes were wide open. Shock was written on his gaping lips. Then he disappeared.

  In the final moments of revelry, no one had noticed the single dorsal fin slicing straight through the surface as if drawn to the ship on the end of an invisible line.

  How insidious the movement of the shark, so different to the gaily frolicking mammals it had been chasing.

  ‘Back to your stations. Now!’ the master yelled. ‘Clean up this mess!’

  The hour of fun and games was over. Elusive had lost a midshipman, and the incident would hang heavily on everyone’s conscience. The event, which Oliver had hoped would raise the sailors’ spirits, had done just the opposite and the men’s disquiet was magnified by the oppression of the equatorial climate.

  Six bells in the forenoon sounded.

  ‘All hands on deck,’ Mr Parry called.

  The men shuffled around. Few had gone below after completing the work of cleaning and holystoning the deck. The heat below deck was too oppressive

  Without being ordered to silence, the low hum of voices hushed when the captain approached. Those wearing hats removed them; even knotted neckerchiefs covering sunburned scalps were pulled off.

  For Oliver, the responsibility of saying words for Midshipman Wood did not come easily. His death has been totally unnecessary – the waste of a life and waste of a promising career. Men were cut down in battle serving their king and country. Some died of scurvy or fever. Others died when they fell from the rigging. But to die the way this young naval officer had perished was tragic. No one deserved that fate and every man-jack of them aboard knew it.

  As the deepening shadow of gloom settled across the ship, the heavens took on a similar garb. By evening, banks of dark clouds were gathering in the western sky.

  ‘The barometer’s falling, Captain,’ Mr Mundy commented. ‘If we’re in luck we’ll see rain before nightfall.’

  But Oliver was not so convinced of their luck. He had skirted a hurricane before and was wary of the formations the clouds were adopting.

  ‘Keep an eye on that sky,’ he said. ‘It looks ominous.’

  The storm struck in the middle of the second dog watch. Some members of the starboard crew had just snatched a little sleep but the larboard watch had had none when all hands were called. Storm clouds had gathered on three sides, heavy black clouds which appeared to hover just above the horizon. Curtains of steel-grey rain. As if suspended on invisible rails, the wet drapes moved, at times closing with each other or overlapping before finally coalescing. As the crew watched, smaller storms were spawned – independent storms with wills of their own. From the deck the officers observed the major front approaching and when the line of bouncing rain advanced, the sea’s surface boiled and bubbled, churning and spitting wildly as if a ghostly regiment of cavalry was galloping across it.

  Having previously been chasing the fleeting wind, Elusive must now try to outwit it. But the new wind had an argumentative will, first blowing violently from one direction, then turning a full circle and blowing back upon itself with a vengeance.

  Before the storm hit, the topsails were triple reefed and all but one of the headsails had been struck. With no hope of sailing into the wind, the frigate tacked and with the wind astern, sailed out of the storm.

  At midnight, the starboard watch went below while the remainder of the crew, who had had no sleep since the previous night, had another four hour’s duty before they could take a break. It was exhausting work but at least it served to take the men’s minds from the death of the young officer. Fortunately too, the winds were courteous carrying the frigate closer to the coast of Brazil.

  For several days the lookouts saw no other sail, not even a trace of weed, whale or turtle.

  The log-board bore hardly a mention of activity save for the occasional exercises on the guns but even these were kept to a minimum as Oliver was conscious that the explosive sounds could attract unwanted attention.

  That night, as he gazed at the blackness of the night sky sprinkled with a trillion stars, the luff in the sail alerted him.

  ‘We are losing the wind.’

  ‘Then we must make the best of what we have. Bring us up on the coast of Brazil, Mr Mundy.’

  ‘Will we be making landfall?’ the master enquired.

  ‘Check with the cooper. Providing our water lasts, we will sail to Rio de Janeiro. If not, then we will anchor at Recife.’

  Chapter 11

  Quicksand

  With the evening meal over, Oliver dabbed his lips and returned the napkin to the table.

  ‘I regard my departure from my last command as ignominious,’ he said. ‘I learned later I was carried from my ship in a hammock – rolled in canvas like a damaged chart – transferred to another ship and despatched to the wards of Greenwich Hospital where it was considered I would possibly spend the rest of my days.

  It was there I learned that the men who die in battle or under the surgeon’s knife make a more pleasant departure from this life than those subjected to months of anguish within the confines of that Spartan establishment. I am of the opinion that the aim of a sojourn within its opulent buildings is to ensure maximum suffering for an extended period with a minimal rate of recovery.’

  The captain leaned back in his chair. ‘I trust you will not use those words against me, Mr Parry. Greenwich Seaman’s Hospital offers sanctuary to almost three thousand old and injured seamen whose final years would otherwise be spent in abject misery. I am, in fact, extremely grateful to the surgeons and physicians of that institution for resolving more than one malady in my case. Unfortunately, however, that period of enforced rest afflicted me with a chronic dose of cynicism from which I am still trying to recover.’

  ‘Are you ready for coffee, Capt’n?’

  ‘Thank you, Casson.’

  ‘A good man,’ said Oliver, as his steward disappeared through the door. ‘When the peace came and he returned to England, he sought permission to visit me at Greenwich. It was there I offered him a post as valet at my home. John Casson has served as my steward for five years and he probably knows, far better than I, what a miserable state I was in. He sat by my bed for many hours reading aloud the journals and gazettes which my wife delivered on a weekly basis. Sadly my somewhat addled brain was incapable of retaining his words and most of the events which took place during the period of my illness remain a mystery to me.’

  ‘That is understandable’.

  ‘No matter. When we first met at the Admiralty, I was at a loss for your background. It was not until you came aboard and I reviewed your papers that I realised that you had had your own command; that you had subsequently lost your ship and faced a court martial.’

  ‘Which exonerated me.’

  ‘Indeed. But you did not receive another command?’

  ‘No. As I had been commissioned only to the rank of Master and Commander and never promoted to post captain, once the ship was gone, my rank reverted to that of lieutenant.’

  ‘And had those unfortunate circumstances not occurred you may well have been elevated to post rank by now. You may have even been given command of Elusive.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Do you wish to speak about those past events? I am not pressing you and
I respect your right to remain silent. I don’t doubt the matter was investigated very thoroughly by the Admiralty Board and imagine that must have been a particularly trying time for you.’

  ‘It was indeed.’

  The atmosphere was a little tense and the arrival of the coffee and the appearance of a box of fine cigars was a well-timed interruption.

  ‘That smells delicious. Thank you, Casson.’

  ‘My pleasure, Capt’n.’

  After a moment’s deliberation, the lieutenant continued the conversation: ‘I lost my ship, sir. That is the top and bottom of it, and I still find it hard to believe.’ He paused, breathed deeply and for a moment watched the steam curling from the spout of the pewter pot. ‘I lost her to a sea as smooth as the linen cloth on this table and in doing so I sentenced seventy men to a diabolical death. Seventy men, goddamit! Left seventy mothers mourning sons. How many children without fathers? And wives without husbands? I can only hazard a guess.’

  ‘The sea has no conscience, Mr Parry, and that number, if you will excuse the pun, is but a drop in the ocean when compared to the casualties of sea battles. I am pleased however to see that you have not left the service.’

  ‘How could I leave a life which I love? I wish for nothing else. I was taken to sea as a boy only eleven years old and, like Nelson, was a midshipman at the age of thirteen and lieutenant six years later. From there I was promoted to Commander on three occasions, and had hoped to be stepped up after my last voyage. Of course, as I said, after losing my ship, that never happened.

  ‘What was your ship?

  ‘A 24-gun sixth-rate. The Gallant. I was given command upon the death of the captain. She was old but a well constructed fast ship. She was capable of fourteen knots in exceptional conditions.’