by M. C. Muir
‘Gun deck’s awash!’ shouted Mr Tully anxiously, from the top of the companion ladder.
‘Check the port lids. Make sure they’re fastened. Get the helm across!’
By this time three men were struggling to turn the wheel, but the ship’s bearing was not budging. With the wind spilled from the sails, lines and blocks were swinging pendulously, threatening to smash the skull of anyone within their reach. The rattling canvas crackled like musket shots, snapping back and forth like a pack of angry dogs. From the yards, the square sails backed, forcing the frigate closer to the Sands.
‘The rudder’s not answering!’ came the desperate call from the helm.
‘Where’s the bosun? Find out why she won’t respond.’
Mr Tully re-appeared from the companionway. ‘Gunport lid wedged open! We’ve taken a fair bit of water.’
‘Go back below. I need men on the pumps.’
‘Aye, Capt’n.’
‘She’ll fill like a bath tub in no time and take us all down!’
Despite the gale of wind, the captain caught his sailing master’s mumbled remark but for the present he chose to ignore it.
‘Do you think someone is trying to sink us again?’ Mr Parry asked.
‘God help us if they are,’ Oliver replied. ‘Mr Smith. Break out the weapons. I want every man on deck armed.’
As Mr Tully hurried below, the bosun grappled his way forward. ‘Captain,’ he yelled, ‘there’s a small rowboat hanging off the stern with her lines wrapped around our rudder. There’s no sign of anyone with it, so they must have boarded.’
‘How many would she carry?’
‘Four at the most.’
‘Anyone see them come aboard? What about the marines?’
‘Two marines on duty, Captain. Both been downed and their muskets taken.’
Damnation! His ship had no steerage. It was drifting towards the Sands. Elusive was taking water and now there were boarders on board. The situation could not be much worse.
‘Search the ship and get some men over the taffrail and cut the lines from the rudder. Then put a ball through the bottom of that boat.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure.’
Before he had time to turn about, a cry rang out from the waist. ‘Captain, we’re boarded!’
Oliver recognised Will Ethridge’s voice but the news it carried was no surprise.
‘Where? How many?’ Oliver asked.
Will stumbled along the deck towards him, blood trickling from a wound on his head. ‘There were two on the gun deck. One jumped from a gun-port before I could stop him but there’s another one down there, but I need help.’
‘Mr Parry, I’m going below. The ship is yours. I trust you to keep her off the sand. If you lose her, we are all dead!’
Simon did not need reminding.
Glancing quickly around the deck, it was obvious to the captain that few men could be spared from the sheets or lines. Keeping the ship afloat was the first priority. ‘You idlers with me.’ Oliver called, heading for the companionway to the gun deck.
‘Shall I get your pistols, Capt’n,’ Casson called.
‘No time,’ he replied, grabbing a cutlass.
‘Here lad,’ said Bungs, thrusting a weapon in Will’s hand.
‘I don’t know how to use it.’
‘You’ll learn quick enough. Stick with me.’
Moving as fast as they dare, the pair followed the captain while Casson, Froyle and two marines followed closely behind.
‘Show yourselves!’ Oliver shouted, running along the deck.
‘Don’t shoot,’ a voice called, from behind one of the twelve pounders. When the man got to his feet, everyone immediately recognised the face of one of the pair who had run the previous day. From the bundle tucked under his shirt, it was obvious he had not been satisfied with the twenty pounds of ambergris he had already taken.
‘Put the gold down, and step aside! Marines, bind this man. You others, follow me below!’
A near-palpable veil of odour greeted the men as they stepped onto the ladder. A combination of damp worm-infested timbers, foul urine-soaked ballast washings, salt pork and beef, wine, sweat and empty grease-streaked barrels containing particles of rotted whale blubber sweetened with the sensual musky aroma of raw ambergris.
Descending to the hold, the captain monitored every sound – the familiar groans and creakings of any ship at sea, the dull thud of the bow as it buried itself into the waves, and the relentless roll and thump of the barrels which had broken loose from their lashings.
The light was dim but no more so than on deck. A pair of swinging lanterns flickered, casting shadows forward and aft, but the amidships' lantern had smashed against the bulwark and extinguished itself.
‘Surrender your weapons!’ the captain shouted, unsure if any other boarders were hiding there.
His answer came loud and clear in an explosive flash of light. The musket ball thwacked the deck beam close to his head bringing an involuntary sneer to the captain’s lips. Now he knew exactly where his adversary was.
Oliver jumped down with Bungs one step behind him. ‘Show yourselves, you cowardly dogs!’ he cried.
As he spoke, the frigate pitched and rolled and the swinging lantern threw its light across the face of the man holding the musket.’ Oliver was shocked.
‘Guthrie!’ he breathed. ‘You dare show your face aboard my ship after what you did to Percy Sparrow!’
For a split second there was silence.
Will’s breath was snatched from his throat. He could neither speak nor cry out. It was the first he had heard of the culprit who had murdered his friend.
It was the same reaction from the cooper, but from deep within Bungs chest came an involuntarily roar like the bellow of a wounded beast. But before Bungs could rush forward, Oliver leapt towards Guthrie, aware of the musket being levelled towards him, aware of the movement of the man’s fingers, then conscious of the empty click as the hammer dropped. But the only flash was that of fear across the sailor’s face when the powder did not ignite.
‘This one is mine,’ Quintrell cried, swinging the cutlass blade beneath the musket and driving it out of Guthrie’s hands. With a flash, he brought the blade down slicing through the man’s collar bone an inch from his throat.
Guthrie squealed like a stuck pig and dropped, blood streaming from his shoulder, blubbering like a baby.
The blade poised in Oliver’s hand quivered for a moment. How easily it would be to slide the point into his belly.
‘Finish him, Captain’ Froyle yelled.
‘No,’ Oliver replied. ‘For what he has done, he doesn’t deserve a quick death. He’ll dangle from the end of a rope and he can think about that through the coming weeks. Marines! Take him away. Guard him and don’t let anyone near him for I’m sure every man aboard would be happy to finish him off.’
The instant Oliver stepped aside, Guthrie’s mate scuttled from between the barrels. But for Bigalow there was no escape from the hold, or from the seaman who had regarded the ship’s carpenter as his friend. Bungs was waiting and while Will and the other men were eager to join in, there was room only for one man at a time.
After wrenching the knife from Bigalow’s fist, Bungs locked both his hands around the seaman’s neck, tightened his grip and squeezed, until every ounce of breath had gurgled from the sailor’s throat and his legs had collapsed beneath him.
‘Leave him, Bungs,’ Will pleaded. ‘Leave him be. Let the pair of them hang for what they did to Chips.’
But Bungs wouldn’t let go. His hands were still clenched around Bigalow’s throat and it took all Will’s strength to prize his fingers free. Once released, Bungs fell back against a barrel. ‘Poor Percy’ he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Then suddenly the ship juddered violently, throwing the captain and his men off their balance.
‘We’ve run aground!’ Oliver yelled. ‘Quickly men, with me!’
On deck, lightening fla
shed and the sound of the stern chaser’s discharge coincided with the clap of thunder. A cheer rang out from the gun crew signifying that the small boat had been sunk, but Mr Parry ignored it. His main concern was the line of breakers and the ship was drifting closer. Once the tide rose to its full, there would be no warning breakers creaming the sand, and soon there would be no indication where either the North or South Goodwins began or ended. Soon all that would remain of the twelve-mile nautical hazard would be the appearance of a troubled lake under which a seething sea monster lay in wait for any unwary ship foolish enough to attempt to sail over it.
How well he remembered.
‘And what of the local luggers?’ he asked Wotton.
‘They’ll wait till first light, then they’ll sail out searching for any ship that’s fallen foul. They’ll take off any survivors but they’ll not say no to helping themselves to the cargo before it goes under. It’s only flotsam after all.’
Simon was about to answer when the ship jerked and shuddered, and the dull scraping of copper plates on sand resounded through the ship’s timbers like an alarm bell. Beneath the hull, Elusive’s keel was dragging on the sand, grinding itself deeper and deeper.
‘We’re aground!’ Mr Mundy shouted.
Skin tingled. Hair stood on end. Hearts pounded. And every man aboard said a silent prayer. Would the next wave lift them free or push them further onto the sand? Every jack-tar was well aware of what a confrontation with the Goodwin Sands could mean.
‘It has to be a bar!’ the lieutenant shouted. ‘There’s open sea to port and starboard. Get a man on the lead!
‘We’re lost if we stick fast. The sea will break us in two.’
‘I don’t need to be reminded, Mr Mundy.’ But as Mr Parry spoke, Elusive heeled on its lodged keel and spun gracefully in an arc of ninety degrees. Canvas crackled. The staysails luffed and filled. Then the frigate launched herself into deeper water raising a resounding cheer from the men on the yards.
‘We’re off!’ Mr Mundy announced jubilantly, as the sails filled and Elusive made way.
‘This time you had the upper hand,’ Oliver called, as he leapt up the companionway from the waist and joined his first lieutenant on deck.
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Parry, with a sigh of relief. ‘And you, sir?’
‘Three prisoners who will be returned to London for court martial. In the meantime, I trust they will appreciate sharing the rest of this cruise surrounded by one million pounds worth of ambergris for it is the last they will ever see of it.’
‘And they’ll surely make the finest smelling corpses when they are dangling from the gallows.’
‘Indeed, Mr Mundy. But for now let us get out of here. Take her as close to the wind and as near the Kent coast as possible. Then south and the Channel again. It is time we were reunited with our escort.’
Stepping aside, Mr Parry gazed back at the darkness.
‘Am I right in thinking you will have no regrets leaving this place,’ Oliver asked quietly.
Simon Parry sighed. ‘Indeed you are.’
Chapter 25
Greenwich
Although the Downs was reputed to be one of England’s safest havens, Oliver was not convinced, and with the events of the previous night still fresh in his mind, he was relieved when Elusive cleared the South Foreland. But it was not until the garrison town of Dover came in view that he allowed himself to relax and accept a cup of coffee from his steward. With the ship in the lee of the white cliffs and a sense of security knowing they were within range of the castle’s recently improved fortifications, he decided it was safe to heave to and drop anchor until the following day.
Morning came slowly with the sun battling for recognition through a thick sea-mist. The storm winds had settled, the air was still and in the mess the crew were able to sit down to breakfast at stable tables.
After an half-hour nap, Oliver stepped on deck relieved to see that the mist had lifted. He was greeted by a cry from aloft.
‘Sail ho!’
‘Where away?’
‘Three English frigates off the starboard quarter.’
He turned and saw the escort ships. They too were lolling on the still Channel waters.
‘They’re signalling, Captain.’
‘I can see that.’
The midshipman hurried aft with his board. ‘Captain requested to go onboard flagship,’ he read.
‘Acknowledge, Mr Hazzlewood. Tell them I will be delighted.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Then, after a moment’s consideration: ‘Belay, that comment, Mr H. Just acknowledge.’
For Oliver Quintrell and Simon Parry, it was an interesting meeting on board the flagship, Foxglove.
After an excellent luncheon, the young commodore boasted quite blatantly how he had teased the French. He described how he had approached the man-of-war near the French coast and fired a warning shot from his forward deck carronade. Registering no response from the warship or the corvettes travelling with it, he had assumed his action had scared the French off. Later in the conversation, when he commented that the French 98-gun appeared to be riding high in the water and was without its full complement of guns on the upper deck, Oliver and Simon exchanged glances but said nothing. To the pair it seemed likely the ship had been converted to a troop carrier and if that was the case it had more urgent business in northern Europe and did not have time to waste in petty pranks in the Channel.
When Oliver was asked to relate what had transpired in the Downs, he spoke firstly of the weather and then of two men who had jumped ship and of the cables that had been cut. Choosing his words carefully, he advised that three others sailors were currently under guard in the ship’s hold and that they would face court martial when Elusive docked in London. He purposely said nothing of the nature of his cargo or of the quantity which had been taken, and provided no details of the revelations about Mr Sparrow’s death and the subsequent events on board. In his opinion, this information was for the Lords of the Admiralty. And it was documented in detail in the ship’s log.
All in all, the meeting was pleasant if only for the wine and excellent cold pheasant. He enjoyed listening to the three other captains relating details of their recent cruises on the North American coast, but Oliver was not sorry when the meeting was over. He was eager to proceed to the mouth of the Thames, at which point the young commodore’s naval leash would be removed.
Two days later, Elusive, in company with her three escorts, left Dover and sailed back through the Downs, navigated the Gull Stream without incident, and cleared the North Foreland before noon. From there they headed west past Sheppey Island and the broad entrance to the Medway before encountering the littered murky waters of the Thames estuary. When the four vessels reached the point where the river narrowed to only half-a-mile in breadth, the ships parted company. After a brief exchange of signals and salutes, Elusive continued her journey alone.
The wharf at Woolwich, where the powder and shot was unloaded, was a welcome stop, though Quintrell and his officers remained ever cautious of prying eyes and sensitive noses. With the danger of explosion making it impossible to burn pitch for an odorous effect, the crew were again ordered to douse the decks with liberal quantities of vinegar, much to the amusement and interest of the dockside workers.
‘Kills the fleas,’ said one of the sailors cockily, when asked the reason for his labours.
Throughout the unloading, Oliver remained on deck making sure no one slipped aboard and that none of the special barrels and crates were accidentally or deliberately transported ashore.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Will, knuckling his forehead as he approached the captain at the gangway. He spoke in a whisper.
‘Speak up, Will, I can hardly hear you.’
‘I fear we’re still taking water, Captain.’
‘How much?’
‘Twenty inches in the well.’
‘Since when?'
‘It’s not gone down since we
took that swamping in the Downs. The bosun says the pumps are not coping.’
‘Have you checked for damage?’
‘Aye, Capt’n. There’s nothing obvious. Just seepage. I think she’s just plain tired, sir, and that last pounding squeezed her to the limits.’
‘Like some of the crew, if I’m not mistaken. Keep an eye on her, if you please. I’ll ask Mr Tully to change the men on the pumps every ten minutes; that may help a little.’ He looked forward along the sweep of the Thames. ‘I do not wish my ship to sink in the heart of London.’
‘I’ll check it right regular, Capt’n.’
Oliver walked back along the deck and joined his first lieutenant. ‘My instructions are to off-load our cargo at the hospital wharf at Greenwich.’
‘A strange location, if I might say.’
‘My thoughts entirely, but it is not for me to argue.’
‘Once the cargo is discharged, the ship will be decommissioned. From there she will be taken to the navy yard at Deptford.’
‘Do you think she will be refitted?’
‘It’s hard to tell. In times such as these, it’s likely she’ll be sent to the breakers’ yard or maybe converted to a coal hulk. But who knows what will happen if times change – however, one thing is certain, we will not be taking her to sea, and in her present condition that is for the best.’
‘It’s back to half-pay then.’
‘Indeed. But what of you, Simon? Will you be returning to Portsmouth? If so, you are most welcome to share my carriage.’
‘I think I will stay in London for a week or two. I can pay my respects at Whitehall and remind the Lords Commissioners of my situation. Plus there are other matters I would like to attend to.’
‘You never spoke of a wife or sweetheart.’
‘No, I never did.’
‘Then I shall not press you,’ Oliver said. ‘Needless to say, should you ever feel inclined to take a wherry across The Solent and visit Bembridge you would be most welcome to stay with us. My wife would be delighted to make your acquaintance.’