The Oliver Quintrell Trilogy Omnibus

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Else what?’ Bungs challenged.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Irons barked.

  Eku looked down at the man’s hands. They were calloused and brown and his nails blackened with pitch. ‘Off a merchant ship, are you?’ he asked, having served on several himself in the past.

  ‘How do you know?’ Irons replied, suspiciously.

  ‘He might be black as the ace of spades,’ Bungs said, ‘but he ain’t dumb. Eku ’ere knows a thing or two. Including a bit of Voodoo magic.’

  Tommy laughed. ‘Not that again. Come on Bungs, if Zac has been in the Caribbean, likely he knows as much as Eku does. Maybe more.’

  ‘Have it your way then, I’ll find another table where they’ll appreciated my company.’ The cooper stood up to leave.

  ‘Don’t be daft, you old fool. Sit down,’ Muffin said.

  But Bungs threw a deaf ear to the table and lumbered off.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Tommy said, ‘Bungs’ll be back.

  ‘I ain’t worried,’ Irons said.

  ‘So where have you been put?’ Eku asked.

  ‘The main,’ he mumbled in reply.

  ‘Top?’ Muffin asked.

  Zachary Irons nodded.

  Tommy was impressed. Good topmen were the elite of the working crew. On most ships, they messed together and didn’t accept newcomers easily. More than any other group on a fighting ship, the life of every man on the yards depended on the skill and strength of the man working alongside him. Zachary Irons would have to prove his worth in the rigging, and quickly, if he was going to be accepted into that fraternity.

  ‘Why were you put up top?’ Eku asked.

  ‘’Cause that’s where I work. I don’t work anywhere else. And that’s what I told the lieutenant.’

  Eku winked at Tommy. ‘Well that’ll keep him out of Bungs’ locker at least.’

  The following morning, standing in the doorway to the captain’s cabin, the surgeon coughed to attract attention.

  Oliver glanced up. ‘Come in, Dr Whipple and bring the midshipman with you. He is with you I trust.’

  The surgeon entered. ‘I’m afraid not. He took a bad turn through the night. I did all I could for him to ease his discomfort.’

  Oliver stared straight into the pale eyes. ‘Are you telling me Mr Gibb is dead?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But he was a fit and lively young man only two days ago! Goddamit, he only came aboard a week ago. This cannot be!’

  The doctor closed the door behind him. ‘You must understand what happened,’ he said softly. ‘In attempting to swallow a fish bone, it became firmly lodged in his throat and, as a result of his coughing and retching, the bone pierced his gullet and became wedged. By constantly poking his finger down his throat, the young man succeeded in exacerbating the matter. It was for that reason I sedated him.’

  The captain was shaking his head.

  ‘I tried everything, but I could not avert a raging infection which quickly took hold, nor prevent the blood poisoning from spreading throughout his body. The administration of laudanum eased his breathing and soothed him in his final hours. I did all I could.’

  Nothing could be said or done which would change the course of events surrounding the midshipman’s untimely death. Sitting at his writing desk, staring down at a blank piece of paper, Oliver pondered the irony of naval service. Death in battle was an accepted part of life. Death by misadventure was occasionally inevitable and happened when least expected. Yet the waste of a young life, by whatever cause, was always a tragedy. Such an event had happened on his last cruise, although the malady and circumstances had been entirely different. And, in future, it would probably happen again.

  Writing a letter to the boy’s family, whom he had never met, explaining the nature of their son’s death, was difficult in the extreme. Oliver pictured them, at the time when their son had prepared to leave home for the first time. He imagined the boy parading himself across the floor in his oversized uniform. A midshipman. No longer a child. He visualized the tears and affectionate kisses bestowed on the boy by his mother and grandmother when they said their fond farewells. He imagined the father’s grand ambitions for his son, fully expecting him to rise up through the naval ranks to make his family proud.

  To be felled fighting the enemy would have provided for an acceptable and glorious epitaph, but that was not the case. Midshipman Gibb had choked on a mouthful of fish pie and Oliver was bearing the guilt of having reprimanded him for coughing at the dinner table. Had he coughed the bone out instead of trying to withhold the reflex, his death may never have resulted.

  ‘Sir, you have no reason to feel guilty,’ Casson said, as he removed the Captain’s untouched cup and saucer. ‘I was responsible for dishing out his portion on the plate. What if that serve had gone to you or Mr Parry? That bone could have stuck in your throat just as easy. It’s fate – that’s what it is. There’s no accounting for why this sort of thing happens and there’s no one to blame but the lad himself for eating too fast without chewing his food. My mother used to say to my brother and me, “Chew your food a hundred times then you’ll think you’ve eaten a hundred spoonfuls instead of only one.”’ Casson chuckled. ‘If truth be told, we’d be lucky if we got more than one spoonful some days.’

  Oliver pondered on the sheer luck of birth right – of boys born into households, where substantial meals were served several times a day, while others begged on street corners for scraps. Or starved. Although the food served to the crews of His Majesty’s ships was considered unpalatable, monotonous and insufficient by some, to others it represented a feast.

  ‘Thank you, Casson.’ Oliver said, with a half-smile. He knew his steward’s intentions were good, yet doubted any words would absolve him from guilt at this time. The boy had been placed into his care and had been his responsibility.

  ‘Pass the word to Mr Parry to assemble the men at noon for the burial service. I shall require my dress uniform.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘There weren’t much left of the lad, were there?’ Bungs said, when recounting the burial service that evening in the mess.

  Abel Longbottom, the assistant surgeon, who had carried the young midshipman in his arms from the sick berth to the deck, had told Tommy Wainwright the boy weighed no more than four stone.

  ‘There was hardly a dent in that hammock he was sewed into. The round shot took up more space.’

  Next morning, with Perpetual south of Start Point, waiting on a wind to carry it across the Channel to Ushant, all hands were called and preparations were made to exercise the guns.

  Mr Tully addressed the men.

  ‘Captain wants to see how useful the new hands are who haven’t sailed with him before. They’ll be divided between the gun crews. You know what’s expected of you. Teach them well. They are your responsibility now.’

  Splitting crews that had served together for years, and substituting inexperienced sailors was as unpopular as seating new men in the mess. Pressed men were despised on the gundeck, not because they were ignorant of working the guns but because they were often troublesome, argumentative, lazy or downright careless. Such attributes were the ingredients for accidents.

  ‘We’ll have the deck bouncing and you all dancing to its beat in no time,’ Mr Tully shouted, his former foremast-Jack voice easily carrying the length of the gun deck. ‘There ain’t no finer hornpipe!’ he quipped.

  The gun captains and regular members of the gun crews watched the pressed sailors as keenly as a hawk eyes a field mouse. Powder and shot were not items to be played with. One false move could be fatal for them all.

  Bungs, Eku and Muffin were still with Hobbles, the deaf-as-a-post gun-captain, who had devised a system of hand signals for the firing sequence. Much to Bungs’ disgust, Lompa and Styles were allocated to Hobbles’ gun crew – the pair who’d lied to avoid selection by saying they had been in jail. It was soon obvious they were lazy and not prepared to pull their weight ei
ther on a gun or any other job aboard the frigate. Zachary Irons, who now messed on Bungs’ table, had been excused from gun practice, because he was a topman.

  With preparations to fire underway, the powder monkeys scampered along the deck delivering cartridges to the gun captains. The gun ports were opened and secured. The guns loaded, primed and run out. Then everyone waited for the order to fire.

  Having grown almost two inches during his time back at home, Tommy Wainwright was no longer seen as a boy and, having the post of surgeon’s loblolly, he no longer had to act as a powder monkey. Despite it being one of the most vulnerable locations on a ship during battle, his place was now with the idlers in the waist, the area of the frigate affectionately known as the slaughterhouse.

  Better than being stuck in the magazine scraping shot, Tommy thought.

  When gun practice was over, Tommy returned to the cockpit. He liked his new job. He liked the surgeon too.

  ‘Carry the bucket carefully and tip the contents into the sea,’ Dr Whipple said. ‘But be mindful it doesn’t spill and keep the lid closed. The smell is not pleasant and I don’t want to hear any complaints from the sailors on deck.’

  After only two days, Tommy was used to carrying the ungainly wooden pail with its rope handle, and was becoming quite adept at preventing the fluid from spilling every time the ship pitched and rolled when climbing the ladder. But this time the bucket was heavy. It was filled near to the brim, and the wooden lid wasn’t fitted tightly enough. As he made his way to the weather deck, bilious green fluid slopped out, trickled down the sides and left a trail of drops along the deck. Tommy ignored them. Such spots would scrub off far easier than bloodstains could be removed after a fight.

  ‘Make way!’ he yelled, as he headed to the frigate’s lee side.

  ‘Make way for the milk maid!’ one of the sailors mocked.

  ‘Anything tasty in there?’ Smithers cried.

  ‘Captain’s tea coming up!’ Brickley joked.

  ‘Back to work you louts!’ Mr Tully reminded. ‘If you’re so keen on having a bucket, then you can help yourself to one, and get a broom while you’re at it and swab the deck again.’

  The men returned to their duties.

  ‘Only ’aving a bit of fun,’ Smithers jibed, his upper lip raised to reveal his toothless gums.

  Tommy ignored the banter. Usually he was quick with a smart reply but only if there was no officer in sight. This cruise was his second aboard a naval frigate and already he was learning more than the ropes. Working with Dr Whipple and Abel Longbottom, in the cockpit, made him feel special. He’d grown not only in height, but in his attitude and way of thinking. The cooper had been the first to notice the differences in him but wasn’t sure he liked what he saw, and he had been quick to remind him of it.

  Securing one end of a line to the caprail and the other to the pail’s rope handle, Tommy waited for the right moment. When the ship heeled, he tipped the contents into the sea. After checking it was empty, he let the salt water wash over it. Having learned an early lesson, after losing his grip on one bucket, he was careful not to let the sea grab it and drag it away.

  ‘Hey, look at that!’ The voice came from the shrouds, the topman pointing to the ship’s wake.

  Immediately, heads spun around to see what the man was pointing at. With Perpetual barely making three knots, it was easy to pick the spot in the ocean that was bubbling like a pot on the galley stove.

  ‘See the fish,’ the sailor on the ratlines shouted.

  There were dozens of them. Big fish leaping, diving, flipping while fighting over the generous feed tipped from the bucket.

  ‘Ain’t you never seen a fish before,’ Mr Tully yelled, leaping onto the caprail to get a better view.

  ‘Them’s innards!’ a voice yelled.

  ‘Back to work!’ Mr Tully ordered, ‘Or you’ll find your name at the top of the morning list!’

  In less than a minute, the shoal of frenziedly fish were lost to the rolling swell and the sailor, who wandered casually across the deck to find out what the commotion was about, found nothing of interest to see.

  ‘I saw it myself,’ Mr Tully admitted to the captain. ‘I’d have thought little of it, but some of the topmen also seen it and recognised the coils.’

  ‘Coils?’ Oliver queried.

  ‘Aye, coils of innards, like the sort you see hanging out of a man’s belly after he’s been sliced open with a cutlass.’

  ‘I appreciate your description, Mr Tully. Your observation will be noted.’

  ‘But that’s not all,’ the second lieutenant added rather apologetically, ‘I’ve overheard murmurs. The men say the doctor is butchering his patients. Them rumours have got some of the hands too scared to answer the sick call.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tully, I will speak with the surgeon. In the meantime, I trust you will assure the men that we have adequate provisions on board and there is no necessity for Dr Whipple to cannibalise the crew.’

  The lieutenant knuckled his forehead and closed the cabin door as he left.

  Oliver thumped his fist onto the deck. ‘Damn, damn and damnation. What is it about the ship’s surgeon that aggravates me so.’

  Casson poked his head around the door. ‘Did you call, Captain?’

  ‘No, I was merely clearing my throat. Coffee however, would be most acceptable.’

  ‘Coming up in two ticks.’

  ‘Dr Whipple. I have been informed by Mr Tully that earlier today the men on the deck witnessed the contents of a pail from the cockpit being emptied over the ship’s side by your young assistant, Tommy Wainwright. I am also advised, what the men saw appeared to be human intestines floating on the surface of the sea and being gorged on by hungry fish. What is your response to that claim?’

  ‘What they saw was correct, Captain. In hindsight, I should have told the lad to empty it after dark. But, I can assure you the intestines were not human. They were from a pig butchered the day before we left Portsmouth. I begged the cook to save the intestines for me and he kindly obliged.’

  ‘Isn’t it customary for the galley to use that commodity to make sausages?’

  ‘Cook said he was too busy to do so, because of the preparations for your excellent meal. He also said they were beginning to smell, and he intended to toss them out.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the captain said, with a sigh. ‘I will speak to the cook regarding such wastage, but for the present, what is your interest in the contents of a pig’s belly?’

  ‘Pig, goat, sheep or man – apart from the number of stomachs, we are all very much the same inside. Anatomising this type of specimen is an interesting challenge.’

  Oliver frowned. ‘Might I remind you, Doctor, you have a duty on this ship to serve your King and His Majesty’s Navy. When a man enters this disciplined way of life, he must say farewell to his favourite haunts, habits, hobbies and, indeed, even those who are dear to him. Perhaps you have failed to realize this.’

  ‘Captain, I respect the Royal Navy and am trying to improve my knowledge in order to advance myself in the service. My tutor, the very well respected surgeon, Mr Astley Cooper – a highly regarded London surgeon, anatomised a whale, a kangaroo and even an elephant at his home in central London.’

  Oliver was not impressed. ‘It may surprise you, sir, but I do not care for the dissection habits of such men or where they choose to conduct their outrageous experiments.’

  He continued. ‘I would remind you, this is my ship and the welfare of every man aboard is my concern. Anything which unsettles, or troubles them, likewise unsettles and troubles me. In future, I will be grateful if you will restrict your so-called interesting challenges to bed bugs, rats and roaches. Good day to you, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Tommy,’ Muffin begged. ‘You call tell me what was in the bucket?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tommy answered in all innocence. ‘It was already in there when I went down to the cockpit. I just did what I was told and got rid of it. I never looked inside.’
/>
  ‘Huh! I thought you were a mate of mine,’ Bungs said. ‘But since you were made loblolly, I think you fancy yourself as being a step up from your old mess mates.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ the lad argued. ‘I was just doing my job. All this talk about what the doctor is supposed to be up to ain’t fair. He’s a good man and he does all he can for them he attends to. But, he says, if some are too far gone, no amount of medicine will cure them.’

  Eku nudged Tommy in the ribs. ‘Ignore Bungs, he’ll come around.’

  But, by being one of the last to hear about the pig’s intestines tossed to the sea, it was obvious Bungs’ nose had been put out of joint.

  ‘Next time you throw an arm or a leg overboard, tell me first. I want to be on deck to see it swim.’

  Eku nudged again and Tommy couldn’t stop a smile from curling on the corners of his lips. Sitting opposite the cooper, the pair watched Bungs scratch the outline of a fish on the mess table with the point of his knife. He appeared to be ignoring them.

  ‘Tread careful, lad,’ Bungs threatened, lifting his face and pointing his knife at Tommy. ‘I warn you. Keep your hands out of the bodies of the dead. There’s no telling what evil will jump out and grab you.’ Turning the knife towards Ekundayo, he hissed. ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you. Leave the dead to the dead. That way they aren’t doing anyone any harm.’

  CHAPTER 6

  The Blockade Fleet

  ‘Deck there! Sail ho!’

  The officer of the watch waited for more information.

  ‘British. Tops’l schooner. Come away from Plymouth. Heading south.’

  The midshipman hurried to the bow but without a glass he was unable to read the schooner’s name.

  The midshipman noted the time of the sighting on the board but, because of the size of the vessel and the direction it was sailing, he was not unduly concerned.

  Since leaving Spithead, they had noted fifteen ships. The English Channel was a busy thoroughfare, not only for British naval vessels, but for ships from many European countries including France. Barques, sloops, brigs and Indiamen serving the East and West Indies were regular sailers, as were local coastal traders, coal carriers and fishing boats. Three-masted merchant ships, loaded with cargoes from the Baltic, regularly headed out across the Atlantic, while dilapidated slave ships returned home from the New World their holds loaded with sugar, coffee or rum, their masters’ pockets stuffed with the tainted profits from their inhuman trade.