by M. C. Muir
‘I don’t care if he is second cousin to the Prince of Wales! I will not tolerate this type of behaviour.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But first, you must allow the surgeon to attend to your lower leg. Obsidian rock is as sharp as glass and can cut deeply. After that, I advise you to take to your bed as soon as you have eaten. We will speak again in the morning.’
The schoolmaster has hardly left he great cabin when Lieutenant Holland asked to speak with the captain.
‘Enter,’ Oliver said. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No problem, Captain. I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I thought you would like to see this.’ In his hands was a large bone, which he handed to the Captain. ‘What do you make of it, sir?’ he asked.
Gazing down, Oliver turned it over in his hands in order to view it from all sides. He closely examined the bulbous ends. ‘It’s not fresh,’ the captain observed.
‘That’s exactly what the surgeon said when I showed it to him.’
‘And what else did the Doctor say?’
‘He said it is a human bone. A leg bone.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘From the island. The captain’s dog must have dug it up somewhere. He carried it to the beach and tried to bury it in the sand. He wasn’t too happy when one of the hands took it from him.’
‘Do you know where he picked it up?’
‘No one knows. Chalmers took Cecil ashore for some exercise after the party had left to search for the boys. But Cecil took off on his own.’
‘Following them?’
‘No, Captain,’ Mr Holland said, ‘I’m told he headed north along the coast, not inland. Chalmers tried to catch him, but the dog was too quick.’
Oliver studied it again. He had seen bones on beaches before, some from beached sea creatures, seals, whales and turtles. He was also familiar with the human toll claimed by sea battles including the dire reports from Trafalgar, and the report of ships lost in the storm where damaged prizes sank with all hands, and where bodies of the dead, or near-dead, were tossed overboard from ships of all nations. Many bodies floated ashore to await a Christian burial that never came. Slowly the relentless tides washed the remnants of clothing from them, while crabs and seabirds made a feast of any flesh that was available. Eventually the beached carcasses were torn apart by wild dogs, foxes or vultures, their bones scattered across the countryside. Few traces were ever left after only a matter of weeks.
This bone, over a foot in length, was bleached white from long exposure to the tropical sun. The only marks on it were minor scratches. With no foxes on the island, they were probably inflicted by Cecil’s teeth or claws. The marks were fresh, clean and only superficial.
‘The surgeon called it a femur. He can’t put an age to it, but says it once belonged to a healthy individual. He said it shows no signs of prior breaks or wounds. But it is not fresh and would not belong to any of the crew.’
‘Interesting,’ Oliver said. ‘With no dirt on it, I do not think it was buried. More likely, it was merely laying on the surface when the dog found it. With no scavengers to tear it apart and being too large and heavy for a bird to carry it off, it is possible other bones were still with it. I would like to know if that is the case and precisely where, on the island, it came from.’
Returning the bone to the lieutenant, Oliver continued. ‘Mr Chalmers appears to be able to relate to the dog. I suggest you take Chalmers, the bone and the hound back to the beach in the morning and see if it can lead you back to the spot where he found it. Tell Chalmers, to rig up a long line to tie around the dog’s neck to prevent him from running away again. Also take a couple of the youngsters who did not go with the schoolmaster on the expedition.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘I suggest you make an early start in the morning.’
By dawn, the bonfire built on the beach had died. Only the embers remained. Overnight the tide had filled, delivering drifting clouds of foamy bubbles along the beach. The gentle breeze lifted them and rolled them further up the sand.
Everything was silent. Then, as if responding to a wake-up call, the thousands of birds that had arrived on the island the night before emerged from their nests and took to the wing blotting the sky in great roiling clouds of living blackness. The sound of beating wings and squealing cries was deafening. Then almost as quickly as it had happened, the swirling murmurating mass rolled away and the sound faded to silence.
It was promptly broken when one of the ship’s guns fired, was reloaded and fired again. Three times in all. The explosion was sufficient to carry the noise across the island. It was intended to provide direction for the missing boys to follow and to spur them into returning to the ship.
An hour later the search party was assembled on the beach. It consisted of a lieutenant, a midshipman, two sailors and four marines. The captain insisted the surgeon also accompany them along with his loblolly. A folded hammock with two pikes was carried with them to be used as a stretcher, if required.
On a roughly drawn map, Mr Greenstreet had marked where the boys split from the rest of the group, and the location of the island’s highest point that had once been its main volcano. While the schoolmaster continued his protestations that he should go along, Captain Quintrell was adamant that he did not leave the ship. The surgeon also insisted that Mr Greenstreet rest his leg, as the injury was far worse than first considered.
Within half an hour of the search party setting off, two other groups departed the beach.
Six marines, armed with two rifles each, headed due east to the inhospitable rugged hills in the centre of the island. It was considered the most likely area to find the wild goats though none had been sighted by the school teacher the previous day. The marines returned mid-afternoon having shot, skinned and cleaned several young goats. They wasted no time in returning to the ship and delivering the fresh meat to the galley.
The second smaller group, led by a recently shorn Newfoundland dog, headed north again, in search of human remains. They arrived back on the beach soon after the marines and were all in good spirits. Despite their search for bones being unsuccessful, the dog and boys had all enjoyed the ramble which had taken them to the northernmost coast of the island. There they had collected several bags of birds’ eggs from the nests in the cracks in the lava. On returning to the ship they presented the eggs and Cecil received a bowl of knucklebones from the cook as a treat.
‘Were you expecting us to find something significant?’ Mr Holland asked when attending the captain in the great cabin.
‘It was a vain hope,’ Oliver replied. ‘Several years ago, the newspapers related the story of a sailor who was deliberately marooned on Ascension Island and left on the beach with only minimal supplies. Some years later, his knapsack was discovered and evidence was found of a campsite he had built. But the sailor was never found. Perhaps that bone is all that remained of his body. Or perhaps he was not the only man to be marooned on the island over the years.’
‘What crime did he commit?’
‘What other? Sodomy.’
The lieutenant thought for a moment. ‘What about a shipwreck and bodies washed ashore?’
‘It is possible,’ the captain said, ‘but one would expect to read of such events in the Naval Chronicle. I think we will gain nothing by searching for old bones. Pass this one to the doctor. He might like to keep it as a souvenir.’
It was early evening when the search party returned escorting the three young gentlemen with them. This time, there was no shrieking or cheering. The boys were filthy, thirsty and hungry and bore numerous scratches on their bare arms and legs. Their fine white shirts and breeches had been ripped to ribbons. Their lips were cracked and swollen, their noses blistered, their cheeks almost the colour of a marine’s coatee.
If Dorrington and his cohorts had expected to receive a rousing welcome on their return, they were sorely disappointed. Once aboard ship, the three were immediately separated, taken below and placed under lock and k
ey in three small cabins. Apart from water to wash in and a cloth to dry themselves with, they were each handed a clean shirt and breeches, given water to drink, a bowl of broth and a hunk of bread to eat, but nothing more.
Despite several demands from the oldest boy to speak with the captain, Oliver Quintrell preferred to allow them time to simmer. Four hours later, he had the three boys ushered into the great cabin.
Seated at his desk, Captain Quintrell was making an entry in his journal. A lantern burned from the overhead beam, without the slightest movement in the flame. A glim was also lit on the captain’s desk close to where he was working.
The boys sneaked a look at each other, grinned and fought the urge to giggle. The captain looked around and glared. ‘You find something amusing, Mr Dorrington?’
The tall youth, thirteen years of age, cleared his throat. ‘No, sir.’
‘And what about you, Mister?’
‘No, certainly not, sir,’ the second boy’s answer was not convincing.
The third boy sniffled.
‘Then why is it, the three of you are struggling to hide your emotions.’
‘Not, sir,’ Dorrington piped up. ‘Just pleased to be back.’
‘I don’t doubt you are – as are the men who were despatched to search for you. Let me inform you that your irresponsible and disobedient behaviour has caused considerable disruption to the ship. It has taken up valuable time and, no least, resulted in a serious injury being suffered by Mr Greenstreet, who you treated with utter disrespect. You ignored his instruction and as a result he could have died. If any of you three gentlemen were ever told you had the potential qualities to rise to the rank of midshipman, let alone advance through the ranks to serve as a lieutenant, then you were sorely mistaken. I am sure your fathers will be less than thrilled when they receive my report and an account of the problems you have caused, not to the mention the time expended in returning you to the ship.’
At the mention of the word fathers, the three faces transformed, as if a death shroud had been slipped over their heads. Any residual expressions of bravado, bluster, pride or superiority immediately dissolved.
‘Might I say something?’
Oliver looked at the smallest boy with the mop of ginger curls and the face that on any other occasion was the epitome of innocence.
‘Speak.’
‘It was Dorrington, Captain. He said we should go with him and forget about Mr Greenstreet.’
The second boy in the line nodded his agreement.
‘And the pair of you went along with that foolish and deceitful suggestion? Have you no backbone, either of you? Have you no mind of your own? Do you not know right from wrong?’ Rising from his seat, the ship’s captain glowered at the three boys. ‘Let me remind you, in His Majesty’s Navy you must obey orders at all times. Perhaps this fact slipped your mind, or perhaps you did not heed the Articles of War that have been read to the ship’s company after every Sunday service since you stepped aboard. Did you think those rules did not apply to you? Perhaps you closed your ears and did not even listen. Or perhaps you thought it was a joke and scoffed at the navy’s regulations.’
‘No, Captain,’ the youngest boy muttered and was about to continue.
‘Silence. For the rest of this cruise you will no longer have the privilege of sharing quarters with the midshipmen, instead you will eat and sleep with the hands in the mess. I can assure you the regular crew will not tolerate any mischief or misbehaviour from the likes of you three. The quartermaster will allocate a number on the overhead beams where you will hang your hammock. Now get out. I do not wish to see you again!’
It was inevitable that during the reprimand, Oliver Quintrell, when looking directly at the three young gentlemen, had compared their manner, demeanour and personality to young Charles Goodridge, the orphan who had come aboard his ship, two years earlier, in Gibraltar.
At eleven years of age, Charles’s knowledge of the construction and workings of a fighting ship was equal to that of most midshipmen and seasoned sailors. And, at that young age, his selflessness, ingenuity and bravery had played a major role in saving one of His Majesty’s frigates and its crew, on a previous mission.
He wondered how Charles, being of humble birth and parentage, was contending with the likes of these young aristocrats. Would such company at the Naval Academy forge his character for a bright future in the navy or would such associations dim his resolve and break his will in the process?
Did Charles really want to go to sea – to study at the Naval Academy – to serve time on one of his Majesty’s ships, sit for examinations and rise in the ranks with the added prospect of promotion, prize money and a comfortable life? These were the questions the captain had puzzled over for some time. Not being born into gentry would always stand against the boy.
Or did Charles want to go to the university in Scotland, following in the footsteps of Dr Whipple and study to become a physician? That decision would be made when he returned to England.
‘Marine,’ he called, when the boys were dismissed. The sentry posted outside the cabin door responded. ‘Pass the word to Mr Brophy – I intend to sail at first light.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
Chapter 15
Scorpion sighted
With a fresh westerly blowing, the 50-gun ship was sailing well making a steady seven knots.
Relaxing in the warm air, some sailors of the starboard watch rested against the rails, while others sought shade on deck beneath the billowing canvas. There had been little call on them to hand the sails for the last two hours.
At eight o’clock, the bell clanged from the belfry, stirred the crew and sent them below for supper. On the ratlines, the topmen of the starboard watch descended as the larboard watch scrambled up to take their places. Nothing was said as the men passed each other. From the quarterdeck, Oliver observed the smooth change of watch.
Within minutes of the fresh lookout reaching the top of the foremast, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to the deck. ‘Sail, ho!’
Every ear that heard the call from the masthead turned in the direction the lookout was pointing.
‘Where away?’ the officer of the watch, called back.
‘Four points off the port bow.’
‘What do you see?’
There was no immediate response.
Mr Holland repeated his question.
‘I can’t be sure. It’s a ship alright. The hull’s half up and it looks to be the size of a frigate, but there’s something mighty strange about the way she’s sailing. Looks like she’s dragging her anchor.’
‘Hardly likely, in mid ocean,’ the sailing master scoffed.
The lookout heard the comment. ‘Well, she ain’t going nowhere with her canvas furled on the fore and main yards. Only cloth that’s loose is the fore t’gallant, but its shredded and waving like half a dozen pennants in the wind.’
‘A glass, if you please,’ the second lieutenant requested. A telescope was handed to him by the shipping master. Unable to see much from the quarterdeck, he snapped the glass shut, leapt onto the rail and headed up the ratlines to join the lookout.
The captain waited a moment. ‘What do you see, Mr Weir?’
‘It’s as the lookout said, most of her sails are furled. It’s likely the others have been unbent or torn away. But she’s dead in the water. No stays’ls set. Just rolling on the swell. Can’t be sure from this distance, but I don’t believe there’s anyone on the deck.’
‘And the helm?’
‘No one there either.’
‘Obvious damage?’
‘Starboard rail partly gone. Can’t speak for the larboard side.’
‘Shot holes? Other damage?’
‘Too far away to be sure, but I don’t think so.’
‘Thank you, Mr Weir. You can return to the deck.’
Within minutes, the lieutenant jumped down from the ratlines and joined the captain on the quarterdeck.
‘What colou
rs is she flying?’ the captain asked.
‘She don’t appear to be flying any.’
Without colours it was impossible to know if she was friend or foe, though the opinion bandied across the quarterdeck was that she was French-built.
Even the name on the transom – Scorpion, revealed nothing of the mystery, but all agreed it was a tidy vessel.
‘What is your opinion, Mr Weir?’
‘A bit too far to see clearly, but it’s as the lookout said, she just don’t look right. She ain’t sailing, just rolling on the swell.’
‘How many guns?’ the captain asked.
‘Possibly twenty-four.’
‘And the gun ports?’
‘All closed,’ the officer said.
Despite the fact not a soul had been seen on the ship’s deck, Oliver remained suspicious. It was an unlikely trap, but he could not be too careful. On the other hand, if the vessel had been abandoned, the question remained – why? Considering it was still afloat thousands of miles from any naval port or dockyard proved it had a sound hull, so if it was deserted, why was that so? Without stepping aboard, it was impossible to know the answers.
‘Any other ships on the horizon?’ Oliver asked.
‘I didn’t see any.’
‘Do we run out the guns?’ Mr Brophy interrupted eagerly.
‘Not yet,’ the captain replied. ‘However, beat to quarters. All hands on deck, if you will. I intend to take a closer look at this wandering albatross. Bring us to within a cable’s length of her starboard side. If she fails to respond to our hail, put a shot across her bow. Let us see what that brings.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
The high pitched squeal of the boatswain’s pipe and the rat-a-tat on the drum’s taut skin spilled the sailors from the hatches and onto the deck; many still chewing on lumps of tough meat.
‘Put a shot alongside her, Mr Brophy.’
‘Scorpion,’ the sailing master read out, as Royal Standard closed on her and the gold-painted letters on the transom became easily legible. ‘Single deck. Twenty-four or twenty-eight-guns, I would say. And riding low in the water.’
