The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  Chapter 9

  Imperishable

  It was three days since they had sailed from Madeira, Imperishable having sailed two days earlier. Perpetual’s delayed departure was due to a prevailing calm that had descended on the island group and had been disinclined to move away. Because of the lack of wind, Oliver had had little choice but to endure a frustrating wait. Having allowed the crew periods of time ashore, he had ventured up the mountain for a second time but had only stayed for an hour. But what a glorious hour that had been.

  He had watched her undress. Stood behind her at the French window as she faced the bay, naked and beguiling. He had run his tongue down her back and she had tossed her hair over him. Turning her about, he had carried her to the bed, laid her down and admired her curves. The swell of the ocean was never as smooth or inviting as she. Climbing on the bed beside her, she had rolled onto him and straddled him, gently pinning his hands with hers. Swaying like the incoming tide, the waves of ecstasy had broken far quicker than he had wished and, like a piece of flotsam, they had carried him to some shore far from reality.

  Lying there, allowing Susanna to rub her body against his, he had listened to the noise of the cicadas clicking their legs, and watched a moth entangle itself in a spider’s web signalling its demise. But the sound of an infant crying and dull thud of a gun salute, fired from the battlements on the harbour, had returned him to reality and reminded him where his duty lay.

  ‘Will I see you on your return?’ she asked.

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Will you write?’

  ‘When I can.’

  That was all she had asked. Nothing more. And he could offer nothing more. Slipping a loose gown around her shoulders, she had watched while he dressed, helped smooth his stockings over his calves, brought his shoes and slid them onto his feet.

  When he left, there had been no words of good-bye or even au revoir just an embrace which neither had wanted to break. Then began the bumpy donkey-ride down the hill to the town knowing it may be another year before he was able to return, and with no guarantee of that.

  Four days out from Madeira and it was time to exercise the guns. The shortcomings of the Isle of Lewis’s gun crews were still fresh in Oliver’s mind. He did not intend to tolerate a similar situation on Perpetual. But as yet, he was not cognizant of his own men’s capabilities or the capacity of his junior officers who would be in charge of the divisions. While the sailors appeared responsive to orders and most of the gun crews were experienced in action, it was the distribution of sailors within the divisions that had led to the disappointing performance on Captain Slater’s ship.

  Addressing his concern to his senior officers, midshipmen and warrant officers, Oliver stipulated his requirements.

  ‘I want a list of every man on every gun crew for each division. I wish to know if they are idlers, topmen, able or ordinary seamen and their experience on a gun. I need to be advised if they are fully fit or carrying old injuries. I want a list of what other tasks they are employed at and where their capabilities best lie. Where a topman is a member of a gun crew, I want him relocated to a position from which he can quickly be replaced by an idler. I realize this will not be possible in all cases. However, when we go into action, I do not want a single gun growing cold if hands are called aloft to make sail. Is that understood?’

  The answer came in chorus, ‘Aye, sir.’

  That afternoon, smoke belched from the waist of the frigate as the starboard guns fired repeatedly and the westerly wind insisted on returning the smoke to the crews through the gun ports. After an hour of constant effort, the men were exhausted. Arms and legs ached, hands wept from blisters, eyes were reddened, tears flowed, throats rasped, lungs heaved and ears rang continually.

  Several crew changes had been made to the disgruntlement of a few gun captains but, overall, Captain Quintrell’s demands had been met and most divisions could now operate according to his stipulations. But, should the necessity arise for all 32-guns to be fired simultaneously, then every man on board, irrespective of his role, would be called on.

  Oliver was satisfied with the men’s performance and was about to order they be stood down, when a call came from the masthead look-out.

  ‘Deck there!’

  ‘What do you see,’ Mr Parry replied.

  ‘Sail. Three points off the starboard bow.’

  ‘Distance and bearing?’

  ‘Perhaps six miles. Heading south.’

  ‘Can you see her colours?’

  ‘British, I think. But there’s a lot of smoke. Looks like she’s on fire.’

  ‘Do you recognize her?’

  ‘Could be the frigate that sailed from Madeira afore we did.’

  Captain Liversedge and his consignment of red-coats, Oliver thought. ‘All hands to make sail. Helmsman, three points to starboard.’

  Then another call from the masthead. ‘There’s another ship. It was hidden by the smoke. A French corvette, I think.’

  The sound of distant gunfire carried on the westerly breeze.

  ‘She’s taking fire, Captain.’

  Oliver had heard it. ‘Mr Tully, get up and report. I pray we are not too late to assist.’

  As the sand ran through the half-hour glass, there was little the captain could do but watch and wait. With Perpetual already cleared for action and the guns still warm, he was ready.

  ‘At least she’s not hauled her colours,’ Mr Parry said, trying to be positive. ‘But, as we are downwind, I doubt Captain Liversedge has heard our guns while he’s been under fire.’

  The news from aloft was not unexpected. ‘The corvette is closing again.’

  ‘Then let us pray the marines aboard her are capable of assisting on the guns and the troops she is transporting are able to fend off boarders.’ He turned to his first officer. ‘I think we should let them know we are here and announce our intentions. I want every second gun on the starboard side fired. I am certain they will hear us from this distance.’

  As Perpetual sailed closer, even through the haze of smoke, the damage to the British ship was clearly evident. Her mizzen mast had gone while the sails she still carried had been shredded with canister and chain. With no forward momentum, she was dead in the water.’

  ‘The Frenchy’s reducing sail, looks like he is preparing to board.’

  ‘He thinks he has a juicy prize, but he is mistaken,’ Oliver mused. ‘Let us take him before he has the opportunity to board. No doubt, he will expect us to sail alongside and we will not disappoint, but first we sail under his bow, rake the deck and fire for the foremast. Then, take her around and clew up the mainsails. Slow us down sufficiently to provide time to deliver two or three broadsides when we sail by. Double shot the guns and fire for her hull. I do not want to see shot skimming over the French deck and inflicting any more damage on the British ship. Then, when we are clear of her, hard over the helm, rake the stern and take down her rigging.’

  Approaching through the smoke and from the lee side of Imperishable, the French corvette proceeded undeterred. Had he not seen or heard Perpetual? Or was he confident he could take the troop carrier and then transfer his attentions to the other British frigate? While he pondered those questions, the appearance on deck of over a hundred red-coats helped turn the table.

  The shots aimed from Perpetual’s forward guns were accurate, cutting the shrouds on the enemy’s fore-channel. When the mainstay was severed, the corvette’s foremast crashed to the deck. Finding his vessel immobilized and sandwiched between two British hulls, the French captain hauled down his flag.

  ‘There were two corvettes when the action began,’ Captain Liversedge explained later. ‘They came up on me at first light. I put up a fight and tried to out-manoeuvre them, but one took out my rudder and put a hole in my hull just on the waterline. Though the carpenter managed to plug it, I thought I was done for. The French must have come to the same conclusion for after exchanging signals one headed away, leaving the other to board and
claim Imperishable as his prize. I kept him at bay as long as possible, but I was coming close to hauling my flag. That was when we heard your guns. And what a welcome sound that was.’

  ‘But what of your men?’ Oliver asked, having seen the wounded still waiting to be taken below. ‘It would appear from the type of shot they were firing, they were aiming for heavy casualties.’

  ‘The men in the rigging and on the rails didn’t stand a chance. The deck ran red.’ Captain Liversedge sighed. ‘In this sorry state, it will be impossible for me to proceed to Jamaica, in fact, I fear I shall be going nowhere.’

  ‘William,’ Oliver said quietly to his old friend. ‘When Captain Crabthorne was in desperate need, you supplied him with sails and spars, now we shall do the same for you. While this weather persists, my men will assist you to make repairs to your steering and mizzen and bend new sails. Once in the wake of the trade winds they will carry you to the West Indies.’

  ‘And what of your prize, Captain Quintrell – the corvette? That also is in a sorry state. And you have now acquired a mob of French prisoners to contend with.’

  ‘The same will apply regarding repairs to her foremast and rigging. Hopefully she will have her own spares on board and a willing carpenter to lend a hand. My men will ensure she is sufficiently seaworthy to make the passage with you to Jamaica. Regarding prisoners, I cannot volunteer to take any aboard Perpetual, as they could jeopardize my mission. It will therefore be necessary to confine them below deck in their own ship.’ Oliver turned to the officer recently passed for lieutenant.

  ‘Mr Hazzlewood, the prize and the prisoners will be your responsibility. You will deliver them both to Kingston. Your first command, I believe. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  ‘Mr Smith will accompany you, while Mr Parry will request two dozen volunteers to sail with you. The biggest danger you could face is meeting a French convoy when you enter the Caribbean. However, the main French and Spanish involvement is around the Mona Strait and Santo Domingo. It would be wise to sail well to the south.’

  ‘Thank you, Oliver,’ William Liversedge said. ‘Without your timely arrival, I would have been facing a court martial in Jamaica – if not meeting my Maker.’

  ‘God willing, we shall meet next year in Portsmouth,’ Oliver said. ‘But let us first attend to the repairs.’ For the present, he prayed the smooth conditions would continue in order that the work could be completed as swiftly as possible.

  For three days, repair work went ahead, the three ships heaving and pitching and slowly drifting in a south-easterly direction on the broad Atlantic swell. Crews from Imperishable and Perpetual, plus a handful of French carpenters and their mates, worked around the clock snatching only brief interludes of sleep. The bosuns of all three ships attended to the rigging, while the sailmakers and any sailor who could palm a needle sat around the decks sewing new sails or patching old ones. Not until the sails were bent was a little time allowed for rest.

  By now, the group of vessels had drifted into tropical waters. The air was warm and the sweet breath of the south-east trade wind was blowing in their faces. Though a long way from Jamaica, that wind was guaranteed to carry Captain Liversedge and Quintrell’s prize over a sweeping arc of ocean to the islands of the West Indies.

  Before the distance lengthened between the frigate heading south-west, and the two vessels sailing east-north-east, there was a round of huzzahs from Perpetual’s crew for Lieutenant Hazzlewood. As commander of the prize vessel, he stood proud on the quarterdeck of the French corvette now sailing under the union jack.

  ‘All sail, Mr Parry,’ Oliver said. ‘We have been delayed long enough.’

  Chapter 10

  Sailing South

  ‘Enter!’ Oliver called, in response to the tapping on his cabin door.

  Midshipman Tully lowered his head and entered.

  ‘What is it, Mr Tully?’

  ‘Excuse me, Capt’n, but the men have been talking and asked me to pass a request to you.’

  Any occasion for the men getting together to discuss an issue sufficiently important to require it to be presented to the captain, was always a worry.

  ‘Come in and close the door,’ he said, snapping the lid closed on his ink well. ‘Tell me, what is the men’s concern?’

  ‘Nothing serious, sir, only I mentioned it to Mr Parry first and he said it was not a decision he could make and said I should put the question to you.’

  ‘Well, out with it man.’

  ‘Mr Greenleaf said that two days from now, if the wind holds, we’ll reach zero degrees latitude. The Equator.’

  Oliver shifted in his chair. He had expected the question several days ago.

  ‘The men want to know if they can perform the usual crossing-the-line rituals.’

  ‘Rituals!’ Oliver hissed, cynically. ‘No. Categorically no. They may not!’

  ‘But sir, it’s just a bit of fun. And it’s important to the foremast lads. It’s tradition.’

  ‘Damn tradition!’ Oliver yelled. ‘Did you not sail with me on my last command? Do you not remember the outcome of that foolish tradition?’

  ‘Aye, sir. How could I forget it? Me and Mr Wood berthed together. But most of Perpetual’s crew didn’t sail with us a year ago, so they just hold by tradition.’ He paused. ‘I can assure you, Captain, this time it’ll be different, I’ll make sure it is and I’ll make sure no one goes near the water.’

  ‘Mr Tully, you served many years before the mast before you entered the service as a midshipman, am I right.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then by now you should know that the day-to-day welfare of the men is the responsibility of the first lieutenant, while the safety of the ship and the success of this mission is a responsibility which sits squarely on my shoulders.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’

  ‘I have crossed the line many times more than most sailors aboard the ship and, like you, I am aware that the crew derive a strange pleasure from subjecting the newest, and usually the youngest hands to this rather ridiculous and sometimes deviant form of irreverent play-acting.’

  Oliver leaned back in his chair and considered his outburst especially in front of a junior officer. Despite his prejudicial views on this issue, he had to concede that for some sailors such activities acted as a safety valve through which men released their pent-up emotions. He was also keenly aware that in equatorial latitudes the crew was often hot and tired, and that in these zones when the wind failed and the ship was becalmed for days or even weeks, sailors became bored. At sea, boredom was the flintlock which could spark mischief.

  Furthermore, the men were far from home with the uncertainty they may never return to England’s shores. And in the present political climate, if and when they did return, what would they find? Their homes burned, their crops destroyed, their wives raped and their children speaking with a French accent?

  ‘Tell the men my answer is, no.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Mr Tully replied, his voice revealing nothing of his disappointment. Knuckling his forehead in the manner of a common seaman, he turned to leave.

  ‘Pass a message to Mr Parry,’ the captain called. ‘I wish to speak with him right away.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Within a matter of moments, Mr Parry was at the cabin door. ‘May I enter?’

  ‘Come in Simon. Sit down. I am sure you know what I wish to speak with you about.’

  ‘King Neptune’s Court?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Skirting the table on which various charts were rolled out, the first lieutenant sat on the seat beneath the gallery window.

  ‘Simon,’ Oliver continued, ‘I trust you know that I am not entirely without heart, but some memories serve as poignant reminders that prick the conscience and make decisions more difficult to arrive at. While I cannot change the past and the future is in God’s hands, I do have some control over the present.’

  Mr Parry nodded.
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br />   Thinking for a moment, Oliver sighed before he spoke. ‘If the present conditions continue for the coming two days, then at noon on the day we reach the Equator, I will grant the men half-a-day’s ease. You will order an extra ration of grog to all hands and permit merriment on deck. Song and dance will be tolerated but within reason. That is of course providing there are no adverse changes in wind or weather. But there will be no shaving, no tarring and feathering, no pantomime, or any other form of theatricals. And certainly no dunkings! And if any man disobeys that order, no matter what his rank, let him be keel-hauled and see how such a dunking appeals to him. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir.’

  Two days later, as midday approached, all eyes were on the midshipmen as they concluded their morning lesson under the watchful eye of Mr Greenleaf. Word had spread and every sailor on deck was waiting for noon to be called, for the sand glasses to be turned, and for the marine at the belfry to ring the ship’s bell eight times.

  As soon as the hour was announced the topmen followed each other from the yards, sliding down the stays like pearls spilling from a broken necklace. Within minutes a queue had formed near the scuttlebutt to be served a double ration of grog.

  Accompanying the high-pitched peeping of a fife was the whine of a violin and the tapping of shoes jigging to a jolly tune. Most hands, congregating in the waist or on the foredeck quickly forgot the reason for the break in daily routine. Many didn’t care, they were just happy to amuse themselves at their leisure. The handful of sailors who had never crossed the Equator before were relieved to hear the Captain’s order for it excused them from being subjected to the discomforts of the traditional sea-going initiation. Only a small group, who had never sailed with Captain Quintrell previously, were peeved that their sadistic performance had not been permitted. The old Elusives were grateful to take their ease, a few reflecting on the past, but saying nothing.