The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver commented with a degree of cynicism.

  The doctor went on: ‘I learned, from the Navy Board, Cadiz is suffering an epidemic of a similar nature.’

  Oliver assessed the frowns on the faces at the table.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the captain announced, attracting everyone’s attention. ‘Here is a question for you to consider. Let us think positively and not negatively on this score. If Spain was to enter the war tomorrow, it would not require a sea battle to defeat them. If the disease is spreading unabated, as Dr Whipple suggests, then King Carlos’s Navy will be hard pressed to find enough fit sailors to man its fighting ships.’ He turned to the sailing master. ‘I regard that topic as a worthwhile question for these young men to ponder over during the coming days. Would you not agree?’

  Before the sailing master could reply, another round of dishes were delivered to the table. The well-timed arrival distracted everyone from the topic of conversation.

  ‘What do we have here, Casson, which cook has hidden beneath the crust?’

  ‘Sea pie, Capt’n. From fish landed on Portsmouth dock only this morning. And a serve of pickled quail eggs, and periwinkles picked fresh from the beach. Cook sent his apologies and said they should have come up first.’

  ‘Well done, Casson. Please thank cook for the excellent fare.’

  The air hung with appetising smells.

  ‘Eat up, Gentlemen, do not let any go to waste, although I am sure my steward and his mates will be able to dispose of any left-over servings, not forgetting the officers on watch.’

  ‘A veritable feast,’ Simon Parry added, helping himself to a slice of pork.

  ‘Excuse me, Captain,’ Mr Hanson said, ‘If we are heading down the Channel, will we be joining the blockade fleet?’

  ‘Not unless the situation changes. Admiral Cornwallis is adequately supplied with ships. Currently he has fifteen off Ushant, although I am sure some of his men would appreciate being relieved. Many have been on that station for a year and a half.’

  While the captain was speaking, Mr Gibb took a large mouthful of fish pie and swallowed but, within seconds, it was obvious the bolus of food had not gone down his gullet as intended.

  The captain chose to ignore the boy’s spluttering but, when the half-chewed contents of the midshipman’s meal was projected across the tablecloth, Oliver cast him an extremely disdainful look. Attempting to ignore the lack of table manners, he continued his conversation.

  ‘Eighteen months is a long spell,’ he said. ‘That is equal to the time Napoleon has been amassing his armies in France for a proposed invasion of Britain. It is well that the Channel patrols have proved a successful deterrent to his evil plans.’

  Struggling to stop himself from coughing, the midshipman clapped his hand across his mouth. But the heaving continued.

  ‘Take a drink,’ the doctor suggested, pushing his glass of wine towards the young man.

  ‘Mr Gibb,’ the captain growled. ‘If you cannot control your coughing, kindly withdraw yourself.’

  With all eyes on him, the colour in the midshipman’s face was no longer that of embarrassment. Unable to breathe properly, his skin had taken on a strange grey pallor, he was gasping for air and his lips were tinged with blue.

  Oliver persisted. ‘Napoleon cannot move his fleets from either Toulon or Brest. Bayonne is his next alternative.’

  ‘Will Lord Nelson stay in the Mediterranean?’ Mr Hanson asked. But his question remained unanswered.

  ‘For goodness sake, Mr Gibb, kindly remove yourself from my table until you are able to behave in a more acceptable manner.’

  Heaving behind his napkin, the young man attempted to offer his apology, his head moving up and down like a tethered goat.

  Rising from his seat beside him, the surgeon assisted the midshipman to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me, Captain Quintrell, I will accompany the young gentleman to the deck. A little fresh air might help.’

  ‘I see no necessity for you to leave the table, Doctor. He has two good legs, has he not?’

  ‘In this instance, I prefer to lend some assistance. Gentlemen,’ he said, inclining his head to the table. ‘I beg you to excuse me.’

  With his hands placed under Mr Gibb’s armpits, Dr Whipple supported him through the doorway towards the ship’s waist. The disturbing sounds continued for a while before slowly fading, as the pair struggled up to the deck.

  For the company at the captain’s table, the conversation was renewed, but the disruption to the evening’s meal had not only left two empty places at the table but reduced the mood to one far less convivial than unusual.

  ‘Well, I hardly think that performance was sufficient to necessitate the services of a surgeon,’ Oliver said, trying to make light of the matter. ‘But the doctor’s loss will be our gain. Casson!’ he called. ‘Kindly open a bottle of that fine French brandy that I brought aboard with me. Unless the doctor returns shortly, I’m afraid he will miss out on an excellent drop.’

  Early morning brought a welcome breeze blowing up from Spithead through the entrance of Portsmouth Harbour. It also brought with it heavy drenching rain making it impossible to see more than thirty yards. The massive chain gate, which was raised across the harbour entrance every night to protect England’s premier harbour from enemy vessels, had already been lowered to the seabed but, despite the entrance being clear, no ships were sailing out. A few fishing boats had headed in taking advantage of the flood tide and the southerly blow, the tired skippers relying on instinct to bring their boats to the fisherman’s wharf.

  Having been advised of the weather conditions at first light, Captain Quintrell had come on deck briefly to check for himself. Before returning to his cabin, he had left word to be called when the tide reached its full or if the rain stopped.

  An hour later, the rain eased to showers and Oliver was again on the quarterdeck relieved to see the clouds breaking up and patchy pockets of blue colouring the grey.

  ‘Wind’s dropping and shifting to the east,’ Mr Mundy confirmed. ‘Still half-an-hour to the full. Shall I pass the order to make ready to sail?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mundy. I have spoken with Mr Parry already.’

  When the rain stopped, hammocks were immediately piped up – a little later than usual – and by the time the larboard watch came on deck, visibility had improved with the sun attempting to break through.

  Across the Solent, the rolling hills of the Isle of Wight were visible as a hazy grey outline. Although he spent little time at his house on the island, it was Oliver Quintrell’s home – the place he often thought of when he was far from England’s shores.

  On the left bank of the harbour mouth stood the old stone fortifications which had guarded the port in a long gone era, from the time when close action was fought from the decks of fighting ships with bows and arrows. Although the latest ships were different in their contours, the enemy from across the Channel was still the same one.

  Away to the right, the Haslar Hospital reminded both officers and sailors alike of the wounded who were brought there to die or to recover, depending on the skill of the surgeons, the Hand of God and the will of the individual to survive.

  Directly across from the Camber was Gosport with its military battery, assorted warehouses, docks and small jetties. From there, the victuallers’ barges came and went serving the naval vessels anchored in the harbour and in Spithead.

  After wasting no time in discharging their night’s catch, a small fleet of fishing boats, with pots or nets piled high on their decks, prepared to head out again. They could not afford to miss the tide’s reflux.

  ‘Good morning, Captain. Fresh, isn’t it?’ Dr Whipple commented, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Come now, Doctor, it is not cold. It is summer. I fear your blood has run to water after lingering too long in the Caribbean.’

  The surgeon smiled politely but did not engage in further conversation. He inhaled deeply but the breeze drifting from the Camb
er delivered only the unfortunate smell of fish.

  Aloft, the topmen on the yards were making preparations to sail. The topsails and t’gallants were already ungasketted. On deck, the lashings on the ship’s boats were secured, and any loose items were hurriedly taken below.

  ‘I have not seen Mr Gibb on deck this morning,’ the captain noted. ‘Are you aware of his watch?’

  ‘He is not on watch, Captain. He is in the cockpit.’

  ‘He should be on deck. Why was I not informed?’

  ‘I intended to inform you. I am afraid he is still unwell. I was hoping his condition would have improved so he could return to his duties.’

  ‘Surely, he is not still coughing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I suggest you bring him here, immediately.’

  ‘I am afraid he is sleeping.’

  ‘Sleeping. At this hour? Then wake him up this instant.’

  ‘That might be difficult. I have administered a dose of laudanum to sedate him.’

  ‘Mr Parry,’ Oliver called. ‘The deck is yours, I am going below.’

  Far from pleased, the captain headed down to the orlop deck surprising the hands who were still in the mess. ‘Have you men nothing to do? On deck this instant!’

  When they reached the door to the cockpit, Oliver stepped back and indicated for the surgeon to go ahead of him.

  ‘The door is locked,’ Dr Whipple said. ‘I did not want the young man to be disturbed.’

  ‘I suggest, you open the door immediately!’ Oliver demanded. ‘I wish to speak with him.’

  ‘That is my sick berth, Captain.’

  ‘And this, sir, is my ship!’

  The surgeon retrieved the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. Although it was a spacious area, the sick berth was lit only by a single lantern hanging from the deck beam in the centre. When at sea, it swung like a pendulum over four chests pushed hastily together to form the table on which the surgeon operated.

  The captain glanced around. Of the six cots suspended from the beams only one was occupied. A mop of soft white-blond curls heaped on the pillow identified the midshipman.

  ‘As I said, Mr Gibb is sleeping. I respectfully ask that he is not disturbed.’

  Oliver rubbed the soul of his shoe on the floor. ‘You have sand on the deck. Did you perform an operation on this young man?’

  ‘No, Captain. The sand was used to absorb the vomit. It makes cleaning easier.’

  ‘And how do you intend to treat this man?’

  ‘Purge him, perhaps. A dose of salts will allow his system to release the blockage and flush away the poison.’

  Oliver regarded him quizzically. ‘But you said the bone was stuck in his throat.’

  ‘At this stage the poisoning in his blood is spreading through his body. Therefore, I will bleed him later,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Surely such treatment will weaken the fellow more. How much have you drawn already?’

  ‘Only ten ounces.’

  ‘And how much yesterday?’ The captain’s tone was cynical.

  ‘Captain Quintrell, I do not tell you how to sail your ship. Kindly do not advise me how to treat my patients. I adhere to the practices commonly employed by the best surgeons of the London Borough Hospitals.’

  ‘Then tell me this, sir. You bleed a man in an effort to improve his health, yet I have seen dozens, if not hundreds of men, wallowing in enlarging pools of blood on a gundeck. These men invariably die, yet according to the mode of treatment the London surgeons practice, they should be the healthiest men on the ship.’

  The doctor did not reply.

  Oliver turned. ‘I wish to see Mr Gibb in my cabin when his condition improves. And, as he appears to be your only patient at the present time, you will accompany him.’

  ‘I will be only too pleased to do so,’ the doctor said, his pale blue eyes flickering in the lantern light.

  ‘Your assistant, Mr Longbottom and the loblolly – young Tommy Wainwright – where are they?’

  ‘Mr Longbottom is at the grindstone in the carpenter’s shop sharpening my knives. Mr Wainwright is in the waist cutting strips of bandage from a bolt of linen.’

  ‘ It appears you are expecting the worst.’

  ‘I am preparing for whatever might eventuate.’

  CHAPTER 5

  English Channel

  5 August 1804

  Soon after ten o’clock, on the morning of 5 August, the British frigate, under the command of Captain Oliver Quintrell, proceeded from Portsmouth Harbour on the ebbing tide. Once clear of the heads, more sail was added and, with a freshening breeze from the south-east, Perpetual headed across the Solent to the English Channel. Apart from local fishing boats, there were only two naval ships sitting in Spithead and a handful of merchant vessels anchored in

  St Helens Road and on the Motherbank. The course, which the captain had discussed earlier with the sailing master, followed the English coast until they were south of Plymouth. From there, they would bear diagonally across the Channel towards Ushant on the north-eastern tip of France. The lookouts would need to be vigilant. The English Channel was a busy waterway, even during peacetime, frequented by ships of various European navies, Indiamen, merchants and coastal traders.

  With lookouts on both the fore and main mastheads, Oliver was acutely aware of the importance of the dispatches he was carrying. The written instructions he had received from the Admiralty clearly stated:

  You are to keep a weight constantly affixed to the dispatches and in case of falling in with an enemy of superior force – you are to throw them overboard and sink them.

  Such a command was not unusual and, if such a situation came about, he would do as instructed. And it would not be the first time.

  When the squares were braced to bear, the wind drummed on the canvas. The jibs and staysails crackled, as they were hauled across the deck obliterating all other sounds. But once Perpetual’s head turned and the courses were sheeted home, the only sounds were the gentle hum from the vibrating rigging and the regular thrap and gurgle of the bow plunging into the swell flowing in from the Atlantic Ocean.

  Standing near the helm, the captain inclined his head to windward and listened. To the men on deck, the sounds were imperceptible, but to the captain and his first officer, the dull distant thunder carried on the wind, was the unmistakable sound of guns.

  ‘Do you hear it, Mr Parry?

  ‘Yes, Captain. Coming from the French coast.’

  There was no way of knowing what the action was and very soon they were out of earshot. No doubt, it would be reported in the Naval Chronicle.

  By early afternoon, Perpetual had left The Needles in its wake and the eleven pressed men, who had been confined in the hold, were released, with the knowledge their fate was sealed. Five were allocated to the larboard watch, the remainder to starboard. An issue of slops clothing was supplied by the purser to those who needed them and each man was issued two hammocks plus a plate, knife, spoon, wooden tankard and a cake of soap.

  After being allocated a place in the mess to sling his hammock, each man’s initials were marked on the beam from which he would lash it. According to the rules, only 18 inches of space was allowed per man, as determined by the Navy Board. However, with the hammock on either side designated to hands from the opposing watch, there were few occasions when the sailors were occupying them at the same time.

  Finding a place to sit in the mess at mealtimes was not such as easy task. No rules applied here. Each table had space to accommodate six or eight men, the sailors sitting where they chose. Most tables were occupied by mates, men who had sailed together for months or even years. As such, most groups didn’t take kindly to having newcomers in their midst, eavesdropping on their private conversations, stealing their jokes, telling tales or spreading malicious rumours. With few choices, the newly signed hands wandered the mess looking for a place to sit but being merchantmen and pressed men to boot meant they were doubly unpopular.


  ‘You shift yourselves across,’ the bosun’s mate shouted, brandishing his knotted starter. ‘If you don’t, you’ll feel the sting of the rope’s end across your head,’

  With an undercurrent of curses and grumbles, a few slithered along their sea chests and a made space available.

  The pressed men were not happy either. Seeing the Isle of Wight disappearing from view meant they had lost their freedom – lost the chance of seeing their wives and children, and now they were stuck on a navy ship loaded with stores for a six month voyage, heading to sea. It would be a long time before they would be returning home. The only reason they controlled their fists and tempers was to avoid being locked in the hold again.

  ‘We don’t want you here,’ Bungs yelled.

  Muffin shrugged. ‘Give it up, Bungs. As long as I’ve sailed with you, you’ve always been the same. At least, let the man sit down and eat. You don’t have to talk to him or even look at him.’

  ‘So, what’s up with you, Muffinman?’ the cooper sneered. ‘What’s brought on this sudden spurt of goodwill? He won’t return you no favours, you mark my words.’

  ‘Let him be,’ Eku said, moving along the sea chest to allow room for one man to sit down. ‘Plenty of space here for young Tommy and room for another.’ The other messmates at the table said nothing as usual.

  ‘I don’t mind you, young Tom,’ Bungs said. ‘I saved a place for you all the months you was ashore. You didn’t know that, did you?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said the big Negro, ‘while me and Muffin had to put up with his yapping tongue all the time.’ He turned to the pressed sailor. ‘What’s your name, man?’

  ‘The name’s Zachary Irons, and don’t you forget it.’