by M. C. Muir
From Ludgate Hill, the highest point of the City of London, to Whitehall by the river, and beyond, there was now a palpable air of despondency hanging over the streets. There were no words left. The news sheets and newspapers had nothing more to report. The crowds had gone and the London streets were empty.
The one exception was the Admiralty in Whitehall which saw a constant flow of officers heading in and out, all seeking commissions. Initially, their visits produced much excited chatter in the enclosed courtyard with animated voices raised in anticipation, but later that tone, like the relentless tide, turned to one of disappointment. It was no more than Captain Quintrell had expected.
From reading the Naval Chronicle, he was aware that the only fleet to have departed Britain in the last six months, apart from Lord Nelson’s, was that of Read Admiral Sir Home Riggs Popham. His fleet of seventy-five vessels had sailed from Cork harbour even before Lord Nelson had stepped aboard Victory at Spithead. Heading south, other ships joined the fleet in Madeira, bringing the number to one hundred and forty ships. While Sir Home Popham’s destination had been shrouded in secrecy, rumour was rife that he was bound for South Africa. The fleet had included transport vessels for 6000 soldiers sufficient to mount an invasion force.
While Sir Home Popham was not a popular commander, a berth on any of those ships would have satisfied every out-of-work seaman. But as this fleet gathered at Cork and not in an English harbour, the first to sign-on would have been Irishmen. The convoy departed the Irish coast on 28 August, 1805, eight weeks before the battle of Trafalgar even took place.
Taking up the offer of his sister’s carriage and driver, Oliver was relieved to take his leave of London and head back to Portsmouth, albeit making a slow journey, staying for two nights at coaching stops along the way where a meal and a clean bed provided welcome breaks.
With little Admiralty sympathy for beached seamen, every coach and conveyance, churning along the wheel ruts in the Portsmouth Road, was overloaded. With no free space on a single carriage, cart or wagon, the road was lined with streams of foot traffic, weary sailors heading to the sea ports in the hope of finding a ship to sign on. Also heading away were farm workers and country folk who had travelled to the city purely to witness the national funeral.
While trying not to appear unsociable, Oliver was reticent to discuss the recent events further and did not look forward to arriving home at Bembridge where he would be asked to relate the whole affair from beginning to end to his wife and her companions. Despite resting at the coaching stops along the road, he still felt extremely weary and wanted nothing more than to retire to his own bed though, even when given the opportunity, sleep did not come easily.
Stepping down from his sister’s carriage at the Portsmouth Hard, the captain spoke briefly with his sister’s driver, and Casson, who had travelled with him. With his dunnage off-loaded, dress uniform, sword, and all the trimmings he had required for the regal occasion, placed in Casson’s care, he farewelled the driver with a handsome tip and instructed his steward to procure a boat to carry them over the Solent to the Isle of Wight.
Across the road from where they had alighted, several sailors were gathered, none of whom he recognised, but noticed a young midshipman pointing in his direction. It was likely he was a clerk from the nearby naval offices.
Oliver paused and waited as the youth crossed the road and approached him.
‘Beg pardon, sir. You are, Captain Quintrell, I understand.’
Oliver nodded. ‘That is correct.’
The young man appeared relieved but nonetheless slightly flustered. ‘I am very pleased to meet up with you, Captain, as I was about to journey across the Solent to your private residence. Your immediate whereabouts were not known to the port admiral. It was thought you had not yet returned from London.’
‘Well, here I am,’ Oliver said, wrapping his boat cloak across his chest, as a biting wind blew in off the water. ‘Tell me, Mr—?’
‘Lawrence, sir. Midshipman.’
‘What is it the Admiral requires of me?’
‘He requests you attend him in his offices as soon as possible.’
It was unlikely the clerk would be cognizant of the reason why his presence had been demanded; despite that, he took the liberty to ask: ‘Do you know the reason?’
‘I believe so, but I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Come now, Mr Lawrence, I doubt divulging your intelligence will sink the British Fleet.’
‘Yes, sir. No, sir,’ the young man stuttered. ‘I believe the port admiral requires you to attend him regarding a ship.’
‘A commission!’ Oliver blurted, trying to withhold the smile that was threatening to light up his face.
The midshipman’s lips remained tight sealed.
Though he had been soliciting the Admiralty since he returned from the West Indies, with a line of Admirals and post captains ahead of him on the list, he had not expected to receive news of a new command for many weeks or even months.
‘What ship?’ he enquired, immediately turning his head and glancing across Spithead to the assortment of vessels straining from their cables on the ebbing tide. Having not been home to monitor the shipping entering the roads, he was not familiar with the recent movements on the Solent and did not know which ships had arrived of late. A pair of large East Indiamen, a 74-, a frigate, a sloop, a schooner and some fishing boats preparing to go to sea did not provide the answer. Perhaps it was one of the rated ships or a prize of war returned from Gibraltar that was currently undergoing repairs in the Royal Dockyard.
As the young midshipman struggled to retrieve a letter from his pocket, a draught of wind caught it and almost tore it from his hand. Oliver noted the young man’s hand was shaking, possibly from the cold. Grasping the envelope firmly, he handed it to the captain.
Turning his back on the breeze, Oliver could not resist opening it there and then. Addressed to Captain Oliver Quintrell, R.N., it was unremarkable, just a standard letter with familiar wording, requesting him to repair to the office of the port admiral in Portsmouth at his earliest convenience. It contained no more information than that which he had gleaned from the courier.
Folding the despatch and placing it in his pocket, Oliver turned to his steward. ‘Stay with the dunnage, Casson. I will return shortly.’ Then he turned his attention to the young clerk. ‘Come along, Mr Lawrence; deliver me to your Admiral in order that I can pay my respects.’
‘Good luck, Captain,’ Casson called after him.
Oliver acknowledged.
* * *
‘She is a 50-gun ship, Captain Quintrell – His Majesty’s ship, Royal Standard – currently in Cork Harbour awaiting a new captain.’
‘Cork – Ireland?’
‘Is there another?’ the ageing officer replied, looking questioningly at the sea captain over the rim of his spectacles.
‘No, sir,’ Oliver replied, regretting his foolish response.
The Admiral dismissed the comment. ‘She was under the command of Captain Chilcott, however, the captain was struck down by a sudden incapacity and is unable to continue his mission. Unfortunately his malady is grave. The last I heard, he was unable to communicate and can move very little.’
‘Did this ailment occur in the harbour?’ Oliver asked.
‘No, he had set sail aboard Royal Standard almost two weeks ago, but only one week out from the harbour, the calamity occurred. I am informed, his injury was the result of a fall, but the doctor is unable to ascertain if the fall resulted in the brain injury or the injury already existed and resulted in the fall.’
‘So the ship was returned to port?’
‘Indeed, under the command of Lieutenant Brophy, a very experienced officer.’
‘This experienced officer – should he not have been stepped up to acting captain?’ Oliver asked.
‘No,’ the Admiral replied bluntly adding nothing to explain his reason and sliding a vellum pouch across the table. ‘Your orders, Captain,’
the Admiral said. ‘You will proceed to Cork and take up your new commission forthwith. There is a packet boat, Weymouth Lass due to sail from Spithead, at noon, two days from now. I have arranged a berth for you. The master will be expecting you. Be on it.’
‘Thank you, sir. I have one request; that my steward be permitted to accompany me.’
‘I am sure that can be accommodated.’ Rising to his feet, the port admiral held out his hand. ‘You will receive further orders when you reach Cork. I wish you well, Captain Quintrell.’
Oliver inclined his head to the seventy year old officer who was the designated authority at the Portsmouth Navy Yard. After retrieving his boat cloak, he replaced his hat and quickly headed back to the Hard where his steward was waiting.
Under a gloomy sky, Oliver Quintrell strode smartly across the dockyard with a tsunami of thoughts rushing through his brain. The satisfaction of being granted a command was foremost, but a 50-gun ship raised questions in his mind.
Was it an old vessel? Most such ships had already seen out their working lives to end their days as troop carriers or hospital ships, sheer hulks or be razeed and sent to some disease-infested tropical location to be quickly forgotten.
As a fourth-rate, they were never built as a line of battle ship and, currently, few were being constructed for that reason. Yet, while they were grand in appearance, complete with ornately carved stern and rear galleries adorning the superstructure, and boasting spacious accommodation, their decks were only two feet longer than that of a frigate.
Of course, being in Cork Harbour, and having just returned from sea due to its captain’s ill health, the ship would already have a full complement of crew with, no doubt, a fair percentage of Irish sailors, reminding Oliver of the problems he had suffered with a number of Irish seamen serving under him in the past. Yet a 50-gun ship would carry more weight in iron than either of his two previous commands, those being 24- and 32-gun frigates.
He had served as a lieutenant on a 64- many years ago but had never stepped aboard a 50-gun ship. However, he presumed it would be similar as far as deck configuration and crew numbers were concerned. He anticipated a crew of around 350 to 400 men, all being unknown to him.
Since the time of the Peace of Amiens he had commanded frigates with two hundred and forty men aboard, many of whom had followed him from ship to ship for several years.
Stepping into the shoes of a well-respected ship’s captain could be uncomfortable at first – depending on the popularity of this officer who had unfortunately been obliged to stand down. Over many missions, each captain gathered men who always sailed with him. It was quite likely that this captain, who was indisposed, would have had a lot of loyal followers.
He wondered if Captain Chilcott had been popular and how the officers and men had responded to him. Certainly not something he would trouble his mind over but a fact he could not help considering.
As for himself, not only would he be unable to muster any of his own followers, it was unlikely he would know any of the senior officers or warrant officers, their reputations, experiences, backgrounds, qualities, quirks and peccadillos. But he would quickly learn.
At the present time, he could only speculate as to his destination and had no indication of the reason the 50-gun ship was departing from Cork.
Apart from the purpose of the mission, he wondered what the ship was carrying.
He had read about the large fleet that had left Cork some weeks ago under the command of Sir Home Popham. Was this 50-gun ship heading out to join Home Popham’s fleet? Or was Royal Standard heading on an independent mission? America, perhaps?
While the victory at Trafalgar had ended the fear of an invasion on British soil, the war in Europe was escalating, with Napoleon’s insatiable appetite for power continuing unabated both by land and sea. Perhaps his destination would be the freezing waters of the Baltic Sea. He hoped not.
Above all, he hoped the previous captain has been delivered into safe hands in Cork.
Hurrying, in order to keep warm, his thoughts turned back to the things he must attend to especially those he had overlooked: to thoughts about the future of young Charles Goodridge; the Doctor; Mrs Pilkington and the question of the Portuguese child. Now there was little time available to attend to even one of those things.
‘I have arranged a boat to take us directly to Bembridge,’ Casson called, as the captain approached. ‘That will save that confounded drive from Ryde to home.’
‘Good man,’ Oliver said.
‘When we arrive on the beach, I’ll call on two of the boys from the stable to bring your dunnage back up to the house.’
With his mind still occupied, Casson’s comments hardly registered and he provided an automatic response. He knew he could rely on his steward to attend to the incidentals and was grateful to know he would be heading to sea with him.
Though his mind was still churning, he resolved he would spend the evening writing letters. A letter of thanks to his sister in London. A letter to the doctor advising him of the latest developments with apologies that it would be unlikely he would see him before he sailed. He also resolved that he must take the time to pen a letter to the Portuguese lawyer who he had never met. He did not know how long it would take correspondence to arrive in Lisbon and when, if ever, he would receive a reply. Unfortunately, that would not happen until after he had sailed.
On more mundane matters, he must instruct Casson to attend to his clothing. His uniforms would require sponging and pressing. He would require his chest to be repacked with several sets of clothing suitable for his new commission, allowing for an extended period of absence, and to accommodate a climate far warmer than the one they were presently enduring.
But his overriding thought was that within a few days, he would be back at sea and all else could be forgotten.
Chapter 8
Bembridge to Cork - Late January 1806
Rising at six o’clock in pitch darkness, Oliver splashed cold water onto his face, dressed warmly, then sat down to a breakfast prepared by the cook and served by his acting man-servant, Michael Casson. It was an unlikely union that seldom occurred and, when it did, it was usually fraught with tension.
A quick glance through the window revealed nothing to see, only fingers of frost in the corner of the window pane. Outside, the wind was rattling the bare branches against the roof tiles, but at least it was not raining.
With his wife still sleeping, he bade her farewell from the doorway but received no acknowledgement of his presence or of his departure. Having provided Victoria with a brief outline of his commission, on the previous evening, relating only the bare details he was aware of, he took his leave. He was relieved to be heading back to sea.
After two hours, dawn was still struggling to lighten the horizon. The journey across the island was tedious, cold and uncomfortable, the carriage rattling along the hard country road at little more than walking pace. Although Casson was seated alongside the captain in the carriage, they spoke little. Casson dozed for most of the journey while Oliver’s head was fully occupied, as he tried to evaluate the mission before him.
On arriving at Ryde, the pair stepped aboard a local craft, the boatman happy to convey them to Spithead. With the Solent’s main tide working in their favour and with sufficient wind to carry them across the water, they made an easy passage. Rather than running up on the Hard or entering the naval yard, Oliver directed the coxswain to head to the sloop, Weymouth Lass, anchored on Spithead. As a regular packet vessel, sailing between Portsmouth and Cork with several local ports of call on the way, the ship’s hold and deck were stacked high with various items – spars, cordage, paint, tar and turpentine, and chests of copper nails, plus boxes of urgent despatches to the Port Admiral at the southern Irish port.
Though the accommodation below deck was limited, Weymouth Lass had berths to accommodate six passengers besides its regular crew. Privacy was limited to a curtain drawn across the front of each bunk. This morning, apart fro
m the master, mate and deckhands, only Captain Quintrell and his steward were on board.
Three days later, before first light, Oliver was woken, by one of the sloop’s crew, with the news that they had raised the coast of Ireland. Being unfamiliar with the approaches to Cork Harbour, he was eager to see all he could, especially the 50-gun ship he was about to take command of. Since receiving his orders, he had pondered long and hard on what to expect.
From his initial papers, Oliver learned that Royal Standard was to carry convicts. Not by the hundreds, as was the case with troops, but a nominal figure of less than fifty souls. He was familiar with the fact that, since the loss of the American states, North America was no longer available as a dumping ground for British convicts – political or otherwise. New South Wales, including the island of Van Diemen’s Land was seen as a suitable destination, where a free labour source could be put to good use for the period of seven or ten years, or life as was the sentence pronounced by the courts.
The recent unrest at the Cape of Good Hope, and the departure from Cork of Sir Home Popham and Major General Baird, indicated Britain’s intention of wresting Cape Town from the Dutch. If so, British convicts could be put to use in that country constructing roads, government buildings and other facilities. But a handful of white convicts in a country that already received hundreds, if not thousands of black slaves from the West African traders, seemed strange. No doubt, Oliver would learn more of the political situation in South Africa when he reached that destination.
From the choppy waters of the Celtic Sea, the enclosed harbour, said to be one of the largest natural harbours in the world, brought a pleasant calm. Sailing between the fortified headlands located on the islands situated to port and starboard, the packet boat swam into the large bay with the wharfs of Cork ahead in the distance.
