by M. C. Muir
The following morning, a second gun practice began immediately after breakfast.
Apart from the recruits, who had participated on the previous day, five of the smaller boys – the youngest of the young gentlemen and the three boy prisoners – were led down to the magazine. Apart from being given instruction from the gunner of their duties and of the dangers they faced when serving as a powder monkey, each was handed a spare neck cloth to wind around his head in order to hold a wad of oakum in his ears.
‘Not only can you be blown to Kingdom Come, if you allow a spark to float into your satchel and ignite the cartridge you are carrying, but you could be struck by a splinter when a gun port is blown to matchwood. I would remind you, the splinters on the gundeck are not the size of those you get under your finger nails. These splinters are great chunks of wood, big enough to cut a man in half, impale him to the mast, or slice off his head without making a sound.
‘And mind you don’t step in the path of a gun that is being fired. It could pick you up and throw you out of the gunport on the other side of the ship and no one would ever miss you until many hours later.
‘And when you are not running the deck with powder, there are practical jobs you can do, like loading pistols and sharpening cutlasses or sprinkling sand on the deck near the guns.’
‘Might I ask what that is for?’ one of the young gentlemen asked politely.
‘To soak up the blood and prevent you from slipping on it. Now if you see a man who has lost a hand or arm, or a leg, stick one of these on him and call for the stretcher bearers to take him to the cockpit.’
Holding up a tourniquet, it was obvious the boys had never seen one before and would not known how to use it. The gunner demonstrated.
‘And if your mate is dead, drag him well out of the way. You don’t want to have to step over him every time you run the length of the gundeck. But if he falls near an open port – push him through it.’
One of the young gents being less than ten-years-old tottered a little but managed to keep his feet.
‘The main thing to remember, when you come down to the magazine is to bring your leather satchel, and when you enter, you must wear felt slippers. You must give your name to the guard outside, and remember to fasten your satchel when you have the cartridge in it. Whatever you do, don’t let a spark or a flaming floater fall into it.
‘Apart from that, it’s an easy job. Just remember to keep running and don’t dilly-dally.’
On the upper gundeck, the hands stood to the same guns and the three young gentlemen and seven convicts joined them, taking up the positions they had been allocated on the previous day. The regular crew were more relaxed than on the previous day, even though, on this occasion, they were to fire live shots.
‘You and your mates are all Irish, aren’t you?’ The voice had an Irish lilt and came from the gun captain standing at the other side of the barrel to Danny Collins.
The convict, however, kept his lips closed. He was loath to talk, for fear of being reprimanded and sent back to the wooden cage on the orlop deck.
‘Where are you from? You can tell me,’ the gunner said in a low voice.
‘Kilmainham,’ Collins said under his breath.
‘I know that,’ the older man said. ‘Where before that, where were you born?’
The young convicts looked across, as he helped haul the cannon up to the open port. ‘Kerry,’ he said.
‘I thought so,’ the gun captain whispered. ‘Have you done this before?’
The young man shook his head. ‘Not on a ship.’
‘Army?’
‘In ninety-eight, during the rebellion, we managed to pinch a British gun and defended the village. I quickly learned how to fire one.’
‘A bad time, eh?’
‘We gave it all we could, and more. But we failed.’
‘Quiet there, no talking,’ Mr Holland said, as he walked past.
‘And you ended up in Kilmainham?’ the gunner whispered, when he saw the midshipman heading over to the guns on the starboard side.’
‘A place I’d rather forget.’
That was the end of the conversation and though the other men in the gun crew had heard what was said, there were no comments.
Danny Collins nodded to himself. For once in a long time, he felt as though he was amongst friends.
After two rounds had been fired, the ship’s waist was blue with smoke and it was impossible to see across the gundeck.
The wet swab was used to sponge the barrel and kill any flames that remained from the pervious ignition. Then a wad was rammed home, followed by the cartridge, handed to him by one of the powder monkeys. Another wad was rammed into the barrel on top of that. Then the gun was hauled forward and the gunner pricked the cartridge, added priming power to his bowl and waited for the word from Mr Holland, the division captain.
Peering through the rising smoke, Captain Quintrell leaned over the rail from the gang boards. Your report, Mr Holland,’ he called.
‘Slow, Captain,’ he replied. ‘But the new men understand what is required. They will serve alright.’
‘Mr Keath,’ the captain called, though he could not see the other midshipman till he emerged from the smoke.
‘Just getting the young gents into order,’ the midshipman replied.
‘Too slow,’ the captain said. ‘The time it is taking your gun to fire, your crew would have been blown off the deck along with half of the ship unless you can return fire more quickly.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
The next time, however, as the gun exploded, shooting orange flame from the muzzle, the young gentleman jumped in fright and, in trying to cover his ears, one boy lost his balance. As he went down, the breeching line caught his legs. The crack of the bone was sharp and clean. The scream was ear-splitting.
‘Mr Keath, get that man off the gundeck!’
‘Aye, aye.’ But before he could call for help, one of the stronger fellows in the gun crew picked the boy up from the deck and carried him down the companionway heading for the cockpit. The screams followed him all the way.
From across the deck, Dorrington laughed, as though the accident to his friend from the Academy was amusing.
‘And remove that man also,’ the captain called. ‘He is not fit to serve on a gundeck. Return him to his quarters, immediately.’
For Oliver Quintrell, the exercise to utilize several of the convicts had proved very satisfactory. He was not disappointed with a single one of them. He only wished he had time to employ all forty-six of them in one occupation or another. But with only a few weeks’ sailing time remaining before they reached Cape Town, there would be insufficient time. However, his opinion of the young gentlemen was another matter altogether.
‘Can you credit these young gents?’ Mr Holland said, later in the wardroom. ‘They have little understanding of the world and seem to have very little imagination to boot.
‘The gunner, in the magazine, sent one of the young fellows to get some cheeses for the gun, as he had used the last one.’ A cheese was the name he gave to the wads rammed into the cannon to hold the ball in place when firing. Because they were made of a circle of rope with rags bound around them – the shape and size resembled that of a cheese.
‘After half an hour of being missing, he sent one of the other hands to find him. Having headed straight down to the galley, the young gentleman asked for some cheese. The cook had queried the request and sent him to the purser. The purser couldn’t understand why the gunner had asked him to get some cheeses and had sent him to the division captain to get clarification.
‘By the time the mystery had been unravelled. The young gentleman was a laughing stock on the gun deck and word of his mistake quickly spread.’
‘Serves him right,’ the young officers in the wardroom agreed.
The rest of the company around the table appreciated the joke.
Chapter 13
Heading South
The rising sun was e
ncircled in a burnished halo created by the hot desert winds of the Sahara. Every morning, the same orange haze tarnished the eastern sky, stretching from north to south as far as the eye could see. Yet no sign of the coast of Africa was sighted, it being over seven hundred miles away. After being becalmed in the Doldrums for seven days, patience aboard ship was wearing thin.
‘It’s possible that sandstorm may reach us,’ the sailing master said. ‘I’ve heard that those winds can carry for 2000 miles. Shame a little of it can’t blow in our favour.’
The captain nodded and paced across the quarterdeck to the larboard side. Fifty yards off the beam, a pod of pilot whales swam by heading north, their black dorsal fins slicing the water but never making the slightest splash. Flying fish, stirred by the presence of the predators, shot from the water. Their whirring wings glistened in the sunlight as they darted across the tops of swell for thirty to forty yards before slicing the crests and disappearing into the sea.
The ocean’s broad horizon was smooth and endless making the curvature of the earth a reality and dispelling the myth, long held by certain sceptics, that the world was flat.
While every dawn was a perfect copy of the previous day’s, there was nothing to inspire the sailors when they dragged themselves on deck whenever a change of watch was called. With little wind, the sultry air drained their spirits. The morning chores on deck were a repetition of duties performed day after day to surfaces that showed no need to be cleaned. As a result, the men moved in a sluggish fashion, much to the ire of the division captains.
‘Put your backs into it, you lazy good-for-nothings!’ was the call, but even that was merely a repeat of the previous day’s order.
At 8-bells of the larboard watch, the hands went below for breakfast. The couldn’t-care-less attitude was repeated in the expressions of the starboard watch that replaced them on the ratlines.
‘It’s the Doldrums,’ the sailing master said. ‘When we are stuck in that belt, for any length of time, the men get infected with its lassitude. And when we eventually pass through it, their brains are unable to cast off the fog of lethargy. I’ve witnessed it several times before.’
‘An interesting observation,’ the captain said, ‘though I believe it is caused by plain boredom. With no change in the wind or weather, and sailing set on a constant course, they are not called upon to do anything.’
To the delight and relief of the whole ship’s company, the following dawn brought with it a light westerly. Sails were set and trimmed and Royal Standard swam south picking up on the course it had previously been following. With the wind freshening, the topmen lifted their chins to feel the rush of air on their faces. On deck the mood that had persisted for days, disappeared even before the men had been called to breakfast, contrary to Mr Brannagh’s opinion.
Turning about to attract the attention of the first lieutenant, the captain was alerted by a call from the lookout on the foremast.
‘Deck there! Sail. Sail off the starboard bow.’
That single word directed every pair of eyes, first to the mast head and then out over the ocean on the starboard side.
‘Where away?’ was the call from the officer of the watch who reached for the glass, left the binnacle and strode briskly over to the rail.
Before he reached the gunwale he received his answer. ‘Two points off the starboard bow.’
Resting his hip against the rail for balance, the young midshipman opened the telescope and scanned the horizon off the bow.
‘Two sail of ships. Maybe three,’ the lookout called.
‘Mr Weir, go up top and report what you see.’
The second lieutenant swung himself up from the deck and scrambled up the ratlines. While every pair of eyes followed him as he climbed, the captain was anxious for more information.
Duplicating the actions and stance of the lookout, the lieutenant peered through the glass for a moment then made the call. ‘Four sails. Square riggers. Hulls not fully up yet. Could be more. Heading north.’
‘Thank you Mr Weir.’
By now, the captain and sailing master’s interest had been piqued. How many ships were there? Were they part of a large fleet? they wondered.
Studying the line of the horizon, there were no deceptive clusters of clouds resting there, so the flecks of white tinged with a dull orange glow and slowly rising from the sea could be nothing other than a convoy of ships.
‘Maybe a dozen or more,’ the lookout called. ‘Spilling over a wide area.’
‘French fleet or East India men?’ the sailing master queried. ‘Let’s hope it is not a French fleet returning home.’
‘What colours?’ Oliver hailed and waited for an answer.
‘Can’t see, Capt’n. Too distant.’
‘Should we change course?’ Mr Brophy asked.
‘Let us not be hasty. I wish to know their heading. But call all hands, quietly now – no drums or whistles.’
With orders circulating the ship, sailors appeared on deck, some half-dressed, pulling on their shirts and fastening handkerchiefs around their necks or foreheads. With a temperature heading towards100 degrees, the cloth helped soak up the sweat running down from their scalps.
The quarterdeck was soon occupied with every officer on the ship craning to get a view. The buzz of whispers in the fo’c’sle was to ascertain why all hands had been called, then to argue their opinions as to the nature and intent of the approaching fleet. The picture consisted of several ships, hulls up and more appearing from the horizon every minute. Within an hour, the number had risen to forty and the monotony of the last few days was broken.
‘Raise the ensign,’ Captain Quintrell ordered. He watched as two middies collected the flag from the deck lockers and headed aft. Moment later the huge flag was fluttering in the light breeze.
As the ships grew and slowly sailed closer, it was clear four were men-of-war carrying 64- to 74-guns each. The other ships, however, appeared to be carrying cargo with little weight of metal.
‘An East India fleet, I suggest,’ Oliver said, ‘returning home from Batavia or China, heavily laden with spices, tea, timber, silks and more. Individually, such vessels would be a tempting target to any hungry privateers patrolling the region.’
A pair of 64-s, a 74- and a 50-gun ship accompanying the heavily laden merchant ships, were on hand to provide protection if and when required. There was always strength in numbers. Some merchant fleets numbered as many as ninety ships. With a convoy of over forty ships there was no fear of attack.
From his home garden, Oliver had often watched them gathering at Spithead and St Helen’s Road. He was aware that the largest John Company vessels carried as much weight in guns as some British naval ships. And the sailors aboard them were skilled at their job, many having served on rated vessels.
‘Reduce sail but maintain the heading,’ the captain called to the officer of the watch. ‘I would speak one of the ships if the opportunity arises. I have mail for the Admiralty. I shall go below and collect my despatches.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
It was two hours before the last of the Company vessels sailed by. There was an assortment of craft, the largest being equivalent to a 74-gun man-of-war along with sloops, snows, schooners and brigs. Not all were East India Company ships. Some were independent traders that had paid to sail with the fleet for protection.
‘Captain,’ the midshipman called from the door of the great cabin. ‘There’s a chance to speak one of the ships. I have hailed her already.’
‘Thank you, Mr Aitcheson, I will come on deck.’
With both vessels hove to at close quarters, a brief conversation was made without the use of speaking trumpets. But Oliver had little interest in discussing the ports the ship had stopped at, or the weather faced in the Indian Ocean. Those details were of little consequence to him. His main concern was news of any opposition encountered in the latter part of their voyage. Also, what the present state of affairs was in Cape Town and whether the Sou
th African territory had been ceded to Britain or remained in the hands of the Dutch. He was also anxious to know if Admiral Sir Home Popham and the troops were still in Port or if they had already departed. The state of health within the colony was also of concern. He had no desire to sail into a den of infection or quarantine.
Captain Yollander, master of the brig sloop, Indigo, said he would be only too pleased to provide Captain Quintrell with answers to his enquires and update him with the affairs of the Cape Province. So, with relatively calm seas, Oliver invited the master to step aboard and share a coffee with him. No sooner had the offer been accepted than a boat was lowered and the visitor rowed across to Royal Standard.
As news travelled slowly to the east, Captain Yollander was eager to learn of the recent fighting in Europe, particularly the battle of Trafalgar, its triumphs and tragedies, and to hear of Nelson’s death and funeral. Even though it had happened several months earlier, much was new to the fleet that had been at sea for many weeks. Napoleon’s advance into Europe was also of particular concern to ships of the East India Company.
Of significance to Oliver and Royal Standard was that, only a few weeks earlier, Sir Home Popham had been preparing to leave Cape Town Bay with his large fleet. It was transporting a large number of soldiers under the command of Major General Sir David Baird. His destination was Buenos Aires in Argentina. He was intent on seizing control of the area from the Spanish Viceroyalty. The Spanish however, had no intention of relinquishing their colonial lands on the Río de la Plata to the British. They would welcome any chance to defeat the British after the drubbing Spain’s navy took at Trafalgar.
The good news was that, in January, under Home Popham, Britain had resumed control of the Cape, having wrested it from the Dutch, and that the changeover had been peaceful. The British jack was now flying in Cape Town.
