Nelson's Wake

by M. C. Muir

  ‘Of course they were on deck even though the prisoners were all shackled. The captain didn’t want to take any chances with them.’

  ‘And this list we are speaking of, are you familiar with the details regarding the types of characters we have in our charge?’

  Brophy shrugged. ‘I didn’t take much notice of it.’

  ‘Then I suggest you locate it and familiarize yourself with the details and deliver it to me within the hour. Those men are now under my care. It would be in your interest to know who and what you are dealing with. Do I make myself understood?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  The final response was less than courteous, delivered in the tone of it being a tedious task and with an unwillingness to comply.

  ‘One more thing,’ the captain added. ‘I am interested to know the ages of the boys amongst the convicts – they appear to be less than twelve years of age.’

  ‘Little good-for-nothings. That’s why they’re here,’ the lieutenant quipped.

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver said. ‘I have spoken with the carpenter regarding a separate compound area on the Orlop deck to accommodate the boys and an exercise area on the forecastle for the prisoners to use in the daytime to get some fresh air.’

  ‘But those felons are already taking up space that could be put to better use. Using timber to make pens will use up good materials that might be needed elsewhere.’

  ‘Let me remind you,’ Oliver said, ‘we are not talking about cattle. And if there is urgent demand, the pens, as you call them, can be taken down quite quickly. Think how easily the great cabin and bulwarks are dismantled whenever a ship clears for action.’

  ‘But the marines will have to—’ he hesitated, but did not continue. ‘We will require twice the number of marines to guard them.’

  ‘You expect them to run very far? Let me remind you we will soon be in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, 2000 miles from the nearest land. Tell me, how many marines are guarding the prisoners currently.’

  ‘At the present time – two.’

  Oliver’s brow furrowed. ‘The register, if you please, Mr Brophy.’

  The lieutenant did not acknowledge or raise his eyes, he merely turned and left the great cabin with a sour expression on his face.

  Oliver looked to the deck beams above is head and shook his head. ‘Mr Parry, where are you?’ he called out.

  The cabin door opened and Casson popped his head around it. ‘Did you call, Capt’n?’

  ‘Ignore that, Casson. I was just lamenting not having Simon Parry on board, and a few of my regular followers.’

  ‘I can understand how you feel, Captain. Shame you didn’t have time to broadcast that you had a ship.’

  It was a problem Oliver Quintrell had mulled over several times since leaving Portsmouth. But even if time had been available to post notices in the street, he doubted few sailors would have been eager or able to follow him to Cork. ‘I am glad to have you with me,’ he said to his steward.

  ‘Not to worry, Captain. Next time we sail, I’ll make sure word is put around the town so we can muster a few of the old crew.’

  Oliver smiled, ‘A commendable idea, but easier said than done. First, we must return safely from the southern hemisphere and secondly, we must be granted a further commission from amongst the long list of post captains still awaiting their first command since Trafalgar. But thank you, Casson. At least you are here.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘At this juncture, I think I would appreciate a strong drink. Bring two glasses and we will find something to toast.’

  Later in the afternoon, while walking the quarterdeck, the first lieutenant handed a list to Captain Quintrell but made no comment.

  ‘Is this the list I requested?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Have you spoken with the prisoners recently, Mr Brophy?’

  ‘Only to order them to be quiet. I promised them they would be put on half rations for the rest of the cruise, if they didn’t pipe down.’

  ‘And did that have any effect?’

  ‘For five minutes, maybe.’ With that, the officer left the deck.

  Shaking his head, Oliver returned to the cabin to examine the detailed information that had been recorded when the convicts were boarded in Cork.

  Studying the list in front of him, Oliver considered the details, noting a few names and occupations of several prisoners who could possibly serve a useful purpose on deck rather than being left below to languish in shackles.

  Returning to the deck, he found Lieutenant Brophy at the binnacle.

  ‘I have prepared my own list,’ the captain said, handing Mr Brophy a short list with only eight names on it. ‘I wish to speak with these men. Kindly have them brought on deck.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes. Now.’

  ‘I don’t think you will get much sense out of them,’ the first lieutenant grumbled.

  Oliver glared at him.

  ‘I’ll have to muster the marines.’

  ‘Mr Brophy, I only wish to speak with eight men. Do whatever you think necessary.’

  Reluctantly the first lieutenant passed the list to the midshipman standing nearest to him. ‘You heard what the captain said.’

  Ten minutes later, the select group of convicts were formed into an untidy line on the quarterdeck. Not having been in fresh air for several weeks, they turned their faces to the wind and breathed deeply, then, looking around, their eyes widened, as they gazed at the expanse of ocean spread out around them.

  With the second lieutenant alongside him and half a dozen marines standing at a distance, Captain Quintrell spoke. ‘If you are not already aware, I am the ship’s captain and, like you, I only came aboard this vessel in Cork.

  ‘My Admiralty orders are to sail to Cape Town – that is near the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa. There, you will disembark and be escorted to the colony’s prison. At that location, you will continue your terms of hard labour – the period being determined by your sentence, be it seven years, fourteen years, or life.’ He paused and looked at the men.

  The convicts were still more interested in the scene around them than the words the captain was uttering.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I have questions to put to you all. I expect your full attention and want you to answer honestly. This is not a test or trial.’ He looked to the faces. Most now appeared to be listening.

  ‘The record I have in my hand informs me that some of you men had connections with the sea before your convictions. Raise your hand if that is so.’

  Three hands went up – cautiously.

  ‘You,’ Oliver called, pointing to one of them. ‘Step forward.’ The convict looked around sheepishly to the others in the group before taking a tentative step forward. The chains on his ankles and wrists rattled as he did.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘O’Leary. Michael O’Leary.’

  Oliver Quintrell referred to the names before him. ‘Seven years for stealing. Is that correct?

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And what do you say, O’Leary?’ The captain waited for the man to provide an answer.

  ‘I was pressed in ’01 to a man o’ war. Then when the Peace came and we were discharged, I headed back to Ireland so the press gangs couldn’t get me again. But what I found when I arrived was the British had left us nothing. They’d taken the farm. Tumbled the house. My mother was dead and my sisters starving. I’d been paid off and collected my wages but that didn’t go far. Only way to survive was to thieve.’

  ‘And you were caught?’

  ‘Seven years, the beak gave me. Seven years.’ He shook his head. ‘He might as well ’ave hung me there an’ then.’

  ‘You,’ Oliver said, indicating to the man who had been standing next to O’Leary and had also raised his hand.

  ‘Facy, Captain.’

  ‘You were a seaman, Mr Facy?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘What ship did you serve on?’


  ‘Delia, Capt’n. Transport. Sixteen guns.’

  ‘And you,’ to the third man who had seemed undecided whether to raise his hand of not. ‘Name?’

  ‘Paddy Cronin.’

  ‘Your past occupation, Mr Cronin?’

  ‘Deck hand on a local fishing boat,’ he replied, then quickly added, ‘It wasn’t my fault we foundered.’

  ‘So how was it you ended up in front of a magistrate in the assizes court?’

  ‘The captain’s money went down with the ship and he said I took it. But I never touched his money, I can swear to that. But no one believed me.’

  Oliver did not comment and passed to the next man in the line. ‘Name and occupation?’

  ‘Byrne. Patrick Byrne. Shipwright.’

  ‘Have you ever served aboard a ship, Mr Byrne?’

  ‘Only worked on the ones I had a hand in building. Never been on the water, just on the stocks before they were slid into the sea.’

  He moved on. ‘You, what is your name?’

  ‘Daniel Davies.’

  ‘It says here you were a fisherman.’

  Davies nodded. ‘Yes, and a damned good one at that.’

  Growing up on the deck of a fishing boat, Oliver Quintrell felt at ease talking briefly about catching herring. ‘So how did you fall foul of the law, Mr Davies?’

  ‘It was my father’s boat,’ the Irishman claimed. ‘That was until the day the British invaded in ninety-eight. It was taken by the redcoats. They promised he would get it back, but, of course, he never did. Soon after that, my father was murdered, our house burned to the ground and the family turned out on the streets. We all near starved. I stole to buy bread and milk to keep us alive. And I’m not ashamed. I was only sixteen at the time.’

  ‘And what of your family now?’

  ‘How am I to know?’

  Oliver turned back to his list. He had two men remaining in the line but three names on the list. ‘John Kemp,’ he called. ‘Where is John Kemp?’

  The men looked at each other but no one answered the call ‘He’s not here,’ one of the remaining men volunteered. ‘He’s still below. He’s one of the youngsters.’

  ‘It says here he was charged with smuggling. What do you know of that?’

  ‘That’s a lie. He’s my nephew. A good lad, he is. We got taken together collecting flotsam from a beach – stuff washed up from wrecked ships. We was both charged with smuggling and brought up before the beak. When we were taken down, I swore to my sister, I’d take care of the lad.’

  ‘You had a boat?’

  Kemp nodded. ‘Don’t know what happened to that.’

  ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Andrew Kemp. I’m the boy’s uncle.’

  Finally, only one man remained. ‘You are Denis O’Donaghue, I believe?’ the captain said. ‘Wherryman?’

  The man was surprised and looked around.

  ‘Tell me Mr O’Donaghue, did you work on the sea?’

  The prisoner shook his head. ‘Not me, captain. The Liffey was my pond.’

  Captain Quintrell strode back along the line scanning the dishevelled group. It was obvious their hair, faces, hands and clothes had not seen water in weeks.

  ‘It appears that most of you are comfortable on the water.’

  The response came in nods with the words, ‘sir’ and ‘captain’ drifting from a few throats.

  Apart from the beggars on the back alleys of most English ports, Oliver had not seen such a bedraggled, moth-eaten, vermin-infested bunch of individuals since he walked through the slave markets in Peru. Six weeks stuck in a cage on the orlop deck had done nothing to improve the prisoners’ appearances.

  ‘Now listen carefully to my considerations. Much will depend on what lies ahead of us, which none of us can foretell. However, one thing is for certain, we are short-handed. A ship of 50-guns, if called to action, will require more than the three hundred men who are currently aboard.

  My orders are to sail Royal Standard to Cape Town, to deliver soldiers and powder to assist the British forces who are presently engaged in reclaiming that territory. If all goes well there, from Cape Town, I will return to Portsmouth.

  ‘My proposal, which may in time come into effect, is that you work on this ship by day alongside the regular hands but at night you will be returned to your compound. During the day you will eat in the mess and receive the same rations as the regular hands.’

  ‘Including grog rations?’ O’Leary asked, through a half smile.

  Oliver chose to ignore that remark. ‘If however, we come into action, you will be expected to stand to a gun and fight as required.’

  ‘And die,’ one Irish voice mumbled.

  ‘Indeed,’ the captain agreed, ‘as we all will, if the ship is taken.’

  The men looked puzzled.

  ‘What choice do we have?’ Paddy Cronin asked.

  ‘Let me put this to you: if you accept my proposal and it should go ahead, you will be given clean slop clothing – the sort supplied to the regular tars. If you perform your duties to the best of your abilities and when, and if, we reach the Cape of Good Hope without incident, I will recommend to the Navy Board in Cape Town that you are signed onto another ship for a period of five years in place of being returned to jail.’

  ‘Can you do that, Captain?’ was a tentative enquiry.

  ‘I can promise nothing, but I can try. However, I am aware that in some English courts a quota system exists whereby prisoners are given the choice of serving in the British Navy or going to jail. If you accept this offer, you must prove yourself deserving by doing all that is asked of you. The first sign of misbehaviour or proof that you have disobeyed the Articles of War, you will be slapped in irons and thrown in the hold with your backs stained red from the cat’s claws. Do I make myself clear?’

  The prisoners looked at each other. ‘And what if we don’t want to do this?’ one asked boldly.

  ‘You will remain under lock and key on the orlop deck and be held there until we raise the Cape. You have ten minutes to consider my proposal.’

  There was little discussion. For the prisoners who had spent months and sometimes years in Kilmainham Gaol – the newest, yet perhaps the harshest, coldest and dampest prison in the British Isles – the sniff of freedom right under their noses was sweet. Not knowing what ports the ships might touch on as it headed south, the possibility of jumping ship was even sweeter. Accepting the Captain’s offer was the easiest commitment they had ever made.

  Acting as spokesman, O’Leary turned to face the captain. ‘Begging your pardon, Capt’n, but the lads have one question.’

  ‘Speak,’ Oliver said.

  ‘The men are afraid the regular crew won’t like it.’

  ‘They may not,’ Oliver replied, ‘but unlike you, the crew will not be given a choice.’

  Soon after the prisoners had been dismissed and returned to their confines on the orlop deck, Oliver put his proposal to his first officer. Not unexpectedly, the response he received was less than positive. It echoed the same concerns expressed by the convicts.

  ‘The crew won’t like it,’ the first lieutenant said. ‘Imagine the hands hauling on a brace alongside men unwilling or too weak even to coil a rope. Or leaning against the bars of the capstan worrying that the man behind him might crush his skull with a length of timber.’

  ‘Mr Brophy, I will evaluate the men’s fantasies if and when the need arises, in the meantime, all men will be expected to put in their best efforts no matter what the challenge and without question or quibble. Any man, be he convict or able seaman, will face the same discipline.’

  ‘I just don’t think the regular hands will be happy.’

  ‘Perhaps a masquerade ball or quadrille on deck would tickle their fancy,’ Oliver said, walking away, peeved with himself for being hooked into a confrontation that he saw no value in.

  Chapter 11

  Young Gentlemen

  At 8-bells, Oliver Quintrell was looking forward to a ta
sty meal with vegetables and meat still fresh after being loaded at Cork. Quite a treat on a naval vessel.

  For a week, Royal Standard had been sailing well on a following sea however, the wind that had carried them south all morning had now almost died. The Bay of Biscay was proving docile on this occasion. Taking the opportunity of dipping pen in ink on a steady writing desk, Oliver turned his attention to his personal log adding comments and observations of the events of the previous few days.

  He had also taken time to observe the ship from stem to stern, poop deck to hold, and to wander the decks casually observing the men as they went about their duties or during their time off watch. It was obvious his close attention was not appreciated. However, all in all, he found the conditions on board Royal Standard satisfactory. He was pleased to find the carpenter had completed work on the compound on the foredeck so groups of eight or ten convicts could be aired at least once a day. That several youngsters were still confined with the men had yet to be addressed.

  Despite the gallery windows being left open there was insufficient wind to draw a breeze from the stern gallery. With no rain during the past week, the dog, Cecil, had accepted his designated place on the outside walkway. And, for the present, with no sign of a change in the weather and heading into slightly lower latitudes, the air was less chill than when they had left Ireland.

  Calling for Chalmers the previous afternoon, Oliver had suggested the dog should be shorn. ‘Enquire if we have a shepherd amongst the hands,’ he had instructed, ‘or a barber, who can shear the beast. It will look tidier and will be more comfortable. Hopefully it will also smell less without all that hair.’

  ‘I’ll enquire, Captain.’

  ‘And pass the hair to one of the men who is able to spin yarn. I would like to see a hat or jerkin knitted from it.’

  Chalmers raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘I’ll let you know, Captain.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Chalmers padded off, the sway of his movement resembling that of his charge. Oliver hoped to see him return very soon to whisk the dog away and for it to return later measuring half its present dimensions.