by M. C. Muir
NELSON’S WAKE
Under Admiralty Orders
The Oliver Quintrell Series – Book 6
M. C. MUIR
Copyright @ M.C. Muir
March 2020
All rights reserved
Horatio Nelson – “…the hero who, in the moment of victory, fell covered with immortal glory. Let us now humbly trust he is raised to bliss ineffable, and to a glorious immortality.”
Proclaimed by Sir Isaac Heard, Garter King at Arms, at the conclusion of funeral service.
Acknowledgments
With sincere thanks to H.M. Mills and Jacqui Smart
And particular mention of the author’s primary source: Fairburn’s second edition of the funeral of Admiral Lord Nelson 1806.
Other references used in the writing of this book appear at the end of the text.
Other books by M.C. Muir in the Oliver Quintrell Series
FLOATING GOLD (Book 1)
THE TAINTED PRIZE (Book 2)
ADMIRALTY ORDERS (Book 3)
THE UNFORTUNATE ISLES (Book 4)
THE SEVENTY-FOUR (Book 5)
Books by the same author (Historical Fiction)
SEA DUST
THE BLACK THREAD
THROUGH GLASS EYES
THE CONDOR’S FEATHER
And more
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 1
Isle of Wight - 5 November 1805
The fire in the hearth spluttered and the candle flames flickered, bowing to an unseen draught coming from beneath the door. Meanwhile, the casement clock delivered its monotonous beat, tick-tock, tick-tock.
For the present, those were the only sounds Oliver Quintrell was conscious of, despite the wittering conversation between his wife and her sister that had been on-going since before breakfast. For the sea captain, the subjects they broached were totally inconsequential and, as he was seated near the window away from the women, he was relieved they made no effort to draw him into their discussions.
Having sailed into Spithead only four days earlier and been home for only two nights, his thoughts were still with his previous command – the 32-gun frigate, Perpetual. Having been at sea for the previous six months, as part of the British fleet serving in the West Indies, he was pleased to be back in Portsmouth. Pleased, also, to welcome the chill of an English autumn, though not happy to recollect the manner in which his time in the Caribbean had ended. Perpetual, having suffered severe damage from a late tropical storm, and needing considerable repair work, was ordered to return to Portsmouth rather than refitting in Port Royal.
After limping across the Atlantic under a jury rig, Perpetual had been towed through Portsmouth harbour’s narrow entrance and moored alongside the jetty at the Royal Navy Dockyard. Even prior to an examination in the yard, he knew the frigate’s future was in the balance.
Subsequently, the crew had been paid off, leaving Captain Quintrell without a commission. His future, like that of many other post captains, would depend on the outcome of the navy’s current mission, recently departed from Spithead, under the command of Vice-Admiral Viscount Lord Nelson.
Aboard HMS Victory, Horatio Nelson had departed Portsmouth a few weeks earlier to meet with other British fighting ships from the Channel and Mediterranean fleets. His mission was to confront and defeat the combined forces of the Spanish and French navies. This encounter had long been mooted and at last was to become a reality.
Captain Oliver Quintrell would have relished being part of Lord Nelson’s fleet but, as frigates only played a supportive role when men-of-war stood in line to face the enemy, it would not have been possible, even with a sound ship.
For the naval captain, it was hard to swallow his frustrations yet not difficult to visualize the magnificent sight on Spithead when the fleet had made preparations to sail; the colours of the flags and the glittering gold lace decorating the officers’ uniforms; the sound of canvas crackling as it fell; lines screaming through wooden blocks, and braces straining against the weight of the mighty yards. Then the gun salutes reverberating across the water signalling the ships’ departure and watching them swim gracefully down the Solent to where the pyramids of sails rose higher as the fleet entered the Channel and headed west.
Oliver closed his eyes and fixed his thoughts on the sea off Cadiz, one thousand miles to the south, where the British fleet was heading to meet the enemy. He wished them God speed.
Suddenly, a smouldering log dropped from the fire and rolled from the hearth spitting sparks over the floor rug and reigniting the dying embers in the grate. The chatter stopped abruptly, the women watching in slight alarm, as fragments of burning ash shot out and floated across to the carpet.
But at the very same moment the fire distracted them from their conversation, another sound alerted Oliver’s attention. Sitting bolt upright, he turned his head and listened.
‘Did you hear that?’ he demanded.
‘Hear what?’ his wife replied quite vehemently. ‘It’s the fire. It needs to be attended to.’
Oliver Quintrell did not answer but pushed himself up from the wingback chair and moved to the window. Drawing back one of the heavy velvet drapes, he peered through the glass but was met with a totally black canvas. In daylight his outlook, from the drawing room, afforded a view across the Solent and southward to the English Channel. That busy waterway never failed to hold his attention, whether it carried ships of the line, merchant ships of the East India Company, or local fishing vessels heading out to the rich fishing grounds in the Celtic Sea.
‘What on earth is the matter?’ Victoria Quintrell bickered, but before she had time to turn around to face him, her husband had reached the door. Pulling it wide open, he shouted down the empty corridor, ‘Casson!’
The maid’s head popped out from the kitchen half way down the house. She immediately scuttled along to the end door which led to the servant’s quarters and repeated the call. ‘Mr Casson,’ she bellowed.
It reminded the captain of orders being relayed aboard ship.
‘Was that really necessary?’ Victoria Quintrell asked, complaining both about her husband raising his voice and for allowing all the warm air to escape from the room.
The captain was unperturbed.
From his accommodation in the servants’ quarters, Michael Casson appeared in his stockinged feet with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a nightcap on his head. Oliver met him halfway down the passage.
‘A lantern, if you please, Casson. And put on your shoes and coat and join me. I intend to step outdoors.’
The man, who had served for several years as the captain’s steward when aboard ship, had always been happy to take up a post at his residence on the Isle of Wight and work in the household until the captain was granted his next commission. He neither looked surprised at the request nor questioned it.
After collecting his glass from the study, Oliver reached for his boat cloak from the hall stand, swung it around his shoulders and waited by the kitchen door that opened onto the cottage garden. Beyond was an area of lawn that ran on a slight decline and ended with a low whitewashed dry-stone wall. From the house’s elevated position on the
top of the hill, the land beyond dropped off quite steeply. The township of Bembridge and the Bembridge estuary snaked below. The vantage point by the wall afforded a clear view directly north across the Motherbank and St Helens Roads to Spithead and to the port towns of Portsmouth and Gosport.
Though not distinguishable in the darkness, Oliver was familiar with the location of every cove, cliff, rocky headland and beach on the opposite coast. He knew exactly where the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour was, even when fog or sea-fret veiled his view. With no moon, Spithead was as black as soot, broken only by a few pinpricks from ships’ running lights. But neither that body of water nor the Royal Navy dockyard was visible. All that appeared in the distance was an ink-black line against an even darker sky. Overhead, the few visible northern stars offered limited illumination. For a moment, however, a light flashed. It was followed by an unmistakable sound coming from the direction of the town. Oliver blew out the lantern.
‘There it is again,’ he announced. ‘Did you hear it?’
Casson cupped his hand to his ear and waited. A minute later the sound was repeated. Muffled and unremarkable, but distinctive to any sailor. Cannon fire.
‘The timing’s regular,’ Casson noted. ‘Firing practice, maybe?’
‘Unlikely at this hour of the evening.’
‘Or could be a salute.’
‘I think not,’ Oliver replied. ‘No ships have entered harbour in the last four hours and I saw none preparing to depart. So why is the cannon being fired every minute? What message is it conveying?’
It was a rhetorical question, not demanding an answer. With no semaphore or signal flags to assist the enquiry, the pair screwed their eyes as they gazed into the distance. For a split second, another burst of light blinked from across the water. It was little greater than a large pinprick on a black backcloth but it was tinged with an orange hue. Oliver opened his glass and directed the scope to where he saw the distinctive flash. The pair waited.
Less than three seconds later, the dull thud from a distant gun again carried across Spithead.
‘It’s from the saluting battery,’ Oliver announced, passing the glass to his steward.
Without the telescope, the captain scanned the dark horizon. In daylight it provided a view of the Hampshire coast from the Haslar Hospital to the centuries old battlements; to the Spur Renown; and to the shingle beaches to the east beyond.
‘What do you make of it, Captain?’ Casson said, returning the glass. ‘Could it be news of the fleet?’
‘Indeed, it could be. I see no other reason for it and, hopefully, it’s a harbinger of good news.’
Casson looked enquiringly at the captain.
The pair remained in the same position for several minutes waiting for each flash of light, nodding in acknowledgement when it appeared then counting the seconds and waiting for the muffled thud to follow.
‘What are your intentions, Capt’n?’
‘We can do nothing at this hour,’ Oliver said. ‘It is too dark. In the morning, however, I will visit the port.’
A half smile curled the corners of Casson’s lips.
‘Speak with Jenks. Tell him I will require the carriage at first light to convey us to Ryde. From there we will take a boat across the Solent. Kindly inform him that we will return to Ryde before dark tomorrow evening and for him to wait in the town and meet us there.’ He paused. ‘You will accompany me,’ he instructed.
‘Aye, Capt’n.’
‘And I will require my undress uniform.’
Confident Casson would attend to all those matters, Oliver returned to the drawing room but only after removing his cloak and dew-soaked shoes and exchanging them for a quilted dressing robe and a pair of slippers.
‘Forgive my unseemly behaviour, ladies,’ he said. ‘It was as I expected. The sound that alerted me was that of cannon fire from across Spithead.’
‘Are we under attack, Oliver?’ his wife asked, smirking cynically at her sister. ‘What made this event so demanding?’ she asked. ‘I hear gun salutes almost daily when you are away at sea. They fire every time a fighting ship enters or leaves the port.’
Oliver paused for a moment then delivered his response. ‘I sense the repetitive gun fire is announcing news. It is possible the fleet is returning and has been sighted in the Channel.’
‘And what is so urgent if that is so, pray may I ask?’
Oliver inhaled quickly. ‘Much rests on the news it brings. If the British fleet has been successful in defeating the combined forces of France and Spain, England will be safe from any further invasion from that tyrant across the water. If, on the other hand, the fleet has been defeated, the coast of England, from Penzance to the Humber, will be vulnerable to attack from Napoleon’s forces. I think you do not understand the significance of the ramifications.’
‘And if we win this battle,’ Victoria Quintrell asked, ‘will I be at liberty to order French lace again and not have to wait more than a year for its arrival?’
Oliver chose not to answer. How different were the thoughts and concerns that occupied him and his spouse. He considered how far apart their lives had drifted during his years in the service – a void that had become broader and deeper with each mission he had undertaken, some taking up to two years to complete.
‘I intend to travel to Portsmouth tomorrow,’ he advised. ‘I will learn what has transpired when I speak with the port admiral.’ He bowed his head to the company before turning to the door. ‘You will have to pardon me ladies but presently I have several important matters to attend to.’
‘And when can I expect you back?’ his wife asked bluntly.
‘Tomorrow evening,’ he said. ‘Hopefully, I shall be bearing good news.’
The early morning air carried the chill of winter, though it was only early November. Both passengers in the carriage were wrapped in woollen boat cloaks fastened at the neck and each had a woven plaid resting across his knees. The drive over the twisting potholed road was slow, uncomfortable but uneventful. The captain spoke little on the journey; his thoughts were still pondering over the likely news the cannon fire was heralding. He knew he would learn more when he reached the naval dockyard.
But even before stepping down from the carriage in Ryde, the sound of singing and excited voices in the town offered an answer to his questions. The message from Portsmouth, carried across the waters of Spithead, the Motherbank and St Helens Road was being broadcast by the crews of every launch, wherry and fishing boat that crossed the Solent to the Isle of Wight.
‘It’s victory! A great victory has been won!’ The cry was echoed along the wharf by the sailors who crowded into the tavern doorways. The calls were repeated by the townsfolk, including women and children who had come out of their houses to join the celebrations. ‘Victory! Britannia rules the waves!’ It was a non-stop cry.
But there were also tears, not of joy, but real heartfelt tears spawned by the other news being passed around – that of the loss of a national hero.
‘Lord Nelson is dead!’
That announcement struck like a bolt to the captain’s heart, as a newssheet was thrust into this hand.
Oliver’s mind went blank. ‘Dear God,’ he said, on a hushed breath. Horatio Nelson dead – the man many believed was invincible – the man sent to lead Britain to a great victory. How could that be? He must verify the news that was creating the hubbub.
With barely a breath of wind over the water, the captain was dependant on the boat’s crew to row him the six miles over Spithead and come up on the Hard adjacent to the Royal Dockyard. Fortunately, the sea was calm.
Stepping into the launch, Oliver took a seat in the stern sheets and waited until the coxswain had pushed off before enquiring from the boatman as to how the news has arrived in the port while no war ships had entered Spithead.
‘News came up from Falmouth by road,’ he said. ‘It was heading to the Admiralty in London. It seems that at every stop the coach made, the message was relayed. I heard that
at Salisbury the driver changed his horses for the fifteenth time and, from the staging post there, the news was carried by courier to Southampton. It arrived in Portsmouth several hours ago and spread like wildfire when it reached the town.’
Oliver wanted more. ‘Which of the fighting ships carried the news home? Was it Victory?’ he asked.
‘I can’t tell you, Capt’n. I don’t know. I’ve told you what I heard. All I can say is the folk in Portsmouth went crazy. I doubt anyone slept in his bed last night. They were dancing in the streets. The taverns never closed their doors, and every window was ablaze with light, due to the celebrating that went on until dawn.’
Though Britain’s victory against the combined fleet of France and Spain was certainly worth toasting and would be celebrated throughout the length and breadth of Britain, the loss of Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson – a great naval hero – would be felt throughout the land even by those who knew little of him.
As the boat neared the Hard, the crew shipped their oars and allowed it to nose up onto the gravel. Before it came to a halt, two of the boat’s crew stepped into the water and heaved it further up the beach.
Casson disembarked first and waited for Captain Quintrell, offering his arm. But the captain was quite capable of stepping out unassisted. Having settled the fare, he turned to his steward. ‘Meet me outside the porter’s office at the main gate at three o’clock.’
Casson heard the order and nodded, but was distracted by the shouts coming from a knot of sailors gathered on the pavement opposite. They were not the only group to be congregated outside the tavern door, with tankards swaying in their hands.
Captain Quintrell recognised several faces of seamen who had sailed on Perpetual, members of the crew he had farewelled only four days earlier.
Standing out from the crowd was the West Indian sailor, born a slave, Ekundayo, who had sailed with him aboard both Elusive and Perpetual. Standing head and shoulder above the majority that only reached around five and a half feet tall, his shiny black pate glowed in the lantern light.
